


The Stars In the Sky, They Shine For Us (Constellations Are Reformed Every Day)

by jehanjetaime



Series: Tales of Aenorium Valoris [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: A little, Abuse, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Demisexual Grantaire, F/F, F/M, Gore, M/M, Magic-Users, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Politics, Slow Burn, Trans Enjolras, Transphobia, Violence, at some point but only from the villians I promise, pre-transition transgender character, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-09-20 11:16:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 103,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9488654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehanjetaime/pseuds/jehanjetaime
Summary: Hercule Grantaire is the crown prince of Ketor. He has never been passionate about the crown, about ruling, but he knows his duty and loves his country, his people. Aurore Enjolras is his new bride, their marriage joining the country of Ketor with neighboring Elus to create a barricade against invading forces from the West. But there is something different about Aurore, something that Grantaire cannot put his finger on.As they navigate through a new marriage, a new country, and the looming threat of war, Grantaire and Enjolras rethink their thoughts on life, monarchy, and each other. And when a vicious attack comes from their enemies, bringing everything they know to the ground and sending them running, hiding, and plotting to gain back the freedoms that are quickly being stripped from everyone in their blooming, infant country, things change. Grantaire finds bravery he never knew, and Aurore finds the strength to share a secret with Grantaire, one that has haunted Aurore since birth.(Tags/warnings/etc may change as the story evolves.)





	1. First Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is quite an undertaking for me! I love fantasy and Enjoltaire, though, so I figured, why not? 
> 
> The Stars (as I call it because the title is long enough for Fall Out Boy to get jealous) is a story of change. Changing from strangers to lovers and everything in between. Changing from royalty to nothing. Changing from nobility to rebellion, from just monarchy to violent dictatorship and, perhaps, back again. And of course, Enjolras' transition away from Princess Aurore Enjolras Grantaire to the person he was always meant to be, which will play a big role in this story.
> 
> ((As this is a story with pre-transition Enjolras, I am using she/her/hers within the story until it all comes out. But that's just a warning mostly for readers like me, who can be bothered by that sort of thing sometimes. I know it's silly but I thought I'd let you all know.))

“You needn’t look so worried,” Grantaire murmured, looking to his bride, who was perched on the bed they would share from then on. “I won’t touch you.”

The blonde on the bed opened her mouth to argue, as if she expected defiance, but faltered when her new husband acquiesced to her request. She looked down, hid her face behind blonde curls. “Good. I would hate for our first night to be nothing but arguing.”

Grantaire waved his hand towards the candelabra above them, and all but two of the flames went out. “You say that, yet you looked ready. Did you have points to make against me if I requested you?”

She pursed her lips a little, a dark bow of disdain on her tanned face. Grantaire knew that his new bride was Northern Elusian, darker skin, lighter hair, fiery temper, fiery magic, but had not expected her to be nearly the spokesperson for the stereotype of her country. Their country, almost. Grantaire’s mother was quickly working with the King and Queen of Elus to combine their neighbouring countries into one solid force that could protect their people and their allies from growing threats in the West. This marriage, certainly not decided upon by neither bride nor groom, had been the biggest step yet. They had both gone through with it, as duty said they would, but now… 

“I did, in fact,” said the new crown princess of Ketor, the previous crown princess of Elus. The future queen of whatever new name could be decided upon for the result of their uniting countries. “I had points, counterpoints, and a solid basis as to why we needn’t spend this night, nor any, rutting like fools.”

That made Grantaire laugh, a rough sharp thing that echoed around their chambers. “You have no need to worry. I mean no offense to you, princess, but - “

“I take more offense to being called ‘princess’ than to your disillusioned idea that I was heartbroken over you not wanting to mount me like a prized breeding dog.” She swung her long legs off of the bed and grabbed not her own nightdress but Grantaire’s, draping it over her arms and having to wrap the sash around her waist twice to secure it. “I will request that you use my last name or nothing at all. My PREVIOUS last name. My middle name, now, I suppose.” 

“But you are a princess,” he said. She was flustered, clearly, and Grantaire could not figure out why. “Surely you’re used to it by now.”

“No. I am not. Now if you please, I am going to take a bath before bed.” She reached out and pulled the tassel that would call for the baths to be filled. “If you fall asleep before I return, I will see you in the morning. Goodnight, Prince Hercule.”

“Goodnight, Princess Aurore,” Grantaire - Hercule Grantaire - said, already forgetting what she had said. But at her icy glare, he bowed his head. As she swept out of the room, Grantaire chuckled.

“Forgive me. Goodnight, Enjolras.”


	2. Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, here we go! Something more substantial.

Hercule Grantaire was a blessing to his parents and his country when he was born. The country was aching for an heir, with the queen having gone through more miscarriages than the public even knew about. So when she realized, once again, that she was pregnant, it was not a day of celebration. In fact, only she, her husband, and the head healer knew. Queen Pinar knew that, within a couple months, before she really started showing, the baby would be gone.

But to the joy of her husband and her country, this child was making it. She began to show, and they had to make the announcement despite her being uncomfortable with it. After all, the queen was sure that she would just disappoint her people again when she lost this child as well. She was in such a shock through the whole pregnancy, during which she was on strict bed rest, that she could hardly function enough to think of a name. She didn’t want to. Pinar Grantaire was so sure that she would lose this baby as had happened to all the others, that she didn’t want to name it, pick out clothing, decide on how to decorate the nursery. It would only make it worse when she finally received the news.

It never came, and in early spring she gave birth to a large, healthy, baby boy. One look at his beautiful face, and Pinar had smiled, uttered a name, then promptly fainted from the stress and the shock. The names she chose rang throughout the halls, the city, then the land. “Hercule,” she had uttered, naming the ancient mage-king who had founded their country centuries ago. He was a hero, surviving throughout everything, overcoming every obstacle.

She thought it was fitting. And her son lived up to the name. As he grew up, he was strong, popular with the people and the court, and good-natured. Hercule Grantaire was prone to bouts of melancholy, too fond of wine and mead as he got older, and had a temper that was always boiling close to the surface, but he was a good son, a good prince.

And all in all, he was pretty happy. Hercule Grantaire, who preferred to just go by his last name to the disappointment of his mother, loved anything physical. He trained with their guards and the military troops as if he were an equal, which not only provided him with friends, but created a great camaraderie between him and the people he would one day be in charge of. Grantaire became a master swordsman, equally adept with his fists. Yet he also was a lover of the arts, a painter, a sculptor, and could play the harp around the fire as good as any minstrel. He was a well-rounded boy and behaved as any royal family would of from their son. His parents were surprised with a lack of rumors of him bedding household staff, visiting families, or people from the city, but assumed he was doing so anyways. Their son was smart, he was a prince - he couldn’t be philandering about, and he knew that. So he was either refraining from activities like that all together, or he was being very clever about hiding it.

Ketor was a happy country. Things were equal between the classes, the races, the genders and sexes. In Ketor, everything was good for a long while.

But they were a land rich in iron deposits, rife with natural gems, and along a valuable stretch of coastline. Ketor, even during a long stretch of peace, was always prepared for war. A troubling power was growing in the West, and had been for a very long time. So when rumors of the royalty of a turbulent continent building an Armada hit the ears of the Ketorian royal family, they started making plans. They started vigorous upkeep on their own skips. They started bulking up their army and having new weapons forged. A group of highly-trained, powerful mages was formed, specifically to be put along the western border as a coast guard.

When a foreign armada was spotted off the coastline, but still in neutral waters, the king and queen knew that something had to be done. They met with the royal family of a friendly country just to the South, which made up another sizeable area of coastline. Elus was a powerful country in their own right, but were also worried about the West. The two countries decided to join forces into an unstoppable union, but were unsure of what would be the best way to go about it.Yet the king and queen had a daughter, aged 18, only a year younger than Hercule.

The answer was as clear as day.

The wedding was quickly set up, a grand affair. Both bride and groom had been asked, not told. And both had agreed. They were married in summer, in full view of the city, packed to the gills with Ketorians and Elusians alike.

Everyone assumed a happy wedding night in store, and hopefully, quickly, an heir to throne that was being created in front of the eyes of the world.

**~~~**

The morning after Grantaire’s wedding, he woke up alone. His bed, empty other than him, was cold. He blinked a little in the sunlight streaming from the window and yawned.

“Good morning,” came a voice from off to his left. Groggily, Grantaire pushed himself up into a sitting position. Sitting at his desk, which he usually used for sketching, was Enjolras. She was fully dressed in a tunic and leggings and busy scribbling on a long piece of parchment. “I’ve been up for hours but thought it looked best if we did not leave the room separately.”

He was still a little tired, but he thought he understood. “So they think we. Ahem. Bonded last night?”

“Yes. That’s what was meant for us last night, so it is best everyone thinks so. It’s nearly lunchtime. They should be expecting us for that, at least. No one’s come to wake us yet, however.” She looked out of the window, where the sun dial was.

“Ah, that’s normal for me. I don’t think I’ve been woken up before lunch since I was using a wooden sword.” Another yawn and he stretched his arms above his head. He stood up shakily and wandered, in just a pair of soft breeches, to the window as well. “Beautiful day.” Grantaire shuffled over plush rug to yank the tassel, the one signifying that he was up. He didn’t really need to be attended to, but his servants were his friends, had been with him a long time, and seemed to be happy to help him and have a morning chat. “You dressed on your own?”

“Yes. I CAN do that,” she said.

“I never said you couldn’t. I was merely curious. Have you brought servants of your own, maids?” Grantaire hadn’t heard of she was bringing her own servants or not, but assumed she would.

“Yes. They’re being trained in how things run here. I do not know much of how things are done in this castle, but I trust they will be treated with respect? They are my closest friends and I will not stand for their mistreatment.” Enjolras watched him carefully out of the corner of her eye, which was unpainted, unlined. Very unlike how she was yesterday, or anything Grantaire knew of Elusian fashion and culture (which was, admittedly, not enough). He was not sure if that a personal preference or just because she had not called up any maids.

“Of course. Nothing would run without servants.” Grantaire smiled, and Enjolras nodded, then went back to her work. “What are you writing so diligently, if I may ask?”

“The speech,” she said, as if it were obvious. When Grantaire had no real answer for her, she turned around to face him yet again. “For the celebration next week? Of our two countries becoming one?”

“...oh! Aha! Yes!” Grantaire clapped his hands together, trying to play it off as if he had remembered that they were both required to make a speech. Which, of course, he did not. Grantaire was a smart man, but notoriously bad with that sort of thing. Hopefully the person being trained to take over as royal advisor was good with schedules and such! He would need a good amount of help in that sense. This advisor had been picked out specifically for his intelligence, his sense of duty, his organizational skills, and his parents - Elusian father, Ketorian mother. Grantaire had never met the man, as he lived in Elus half the time and was always busy, but hoped for the best. “The speech!”

“...you forgot, didn’t you?”

“Goodness no!” Another laugh. And then his face fell flat. “Well, a little. Perhaps it DID slip my mind in all the fuss over something called my wedding?”

Enjolras rolled her eyes, but Grantaire swore she was smiling. “Well, you better get writing - it will be here before you know it.”

His stomach growling answered her. “Well, I hope lunch is here before I know it! I am starving. Once I’m dressed, will you accompany me to the dining room? You won’t recognize if from last night.” It had been grandly decorated and covered in drunken party-goers. Now it was back to normal, which was still beautiful. Just not as extravagant.

“I suppose I shall.” A dark look passed her face, but it was gone again in a moment. “I am ready when you are.

**~~~**

A hush came over the rather sizable crowd gathered for lunch as Grantaire and Enjolras entered the dining room, Enjolras’ hand in the crook of Grantaire’s elbow. He wasn’t entirely sure why they were being looked at that way, and mostly from the Elusian nobility. Enjolras’ mother’s face was red. 

“Well, don’t everybody stop on our account,” he said jovially before walking into the head table. He pulled out Enjolras’ chair, then sat next to her.

Grantaire’s mother cleared her throat and smiled. “It’s nice to see you up and about. Aurore, dear, how was your first night in our castle?”

“It was lovely, your majesty, though I am not yet used to the cold.” It was true. The Northern part of Elus was about the same as the Southern portion of Ketor, climatewise, as they shared a border. But the Northern part of Ketor was vastly different, and got a sizeable amount of snow during the winter. But it was not the winter.

“Mother, she prefers to be called Enjolras,” Grantaire said quietly. “And I cannot possibly believe you were cold. It’s in the middle of the summer!”

He announced this part loudly, and it started many conversations; the Elusians insisted it was a little chilly while the Ketorians maintained that this was the perfect beach weather. The sounds of so many people talking made the dining hall sound more normal, more like it always did.

Enjolras leaned closer to Grantaire while she speared a hefty potato. “Thank you.”

He winked. “You ARE my wife, after all.”

Her face fell and she leaned back into her seat. What had he done wrong? He couldn’t read this woman. She didn’t seem miserable, but he could easily deduce that she wasn’t happy. She fell into conversation with her mother, so Grantaire did the same.

“Have you heard from father?” he asked while a servant poured heavy syrup all over his thick pancake.

“No, not yet. He was desperately hoping to be back for your wedding, but diplomacy is so difficult with these Westerners. Though, we did have a message from the group overseas in general, and will be having a meeting to discuss it later. We’ve found out which countries are our enemies for certain. It’s nothing I want to say here, where anyone may hear.” She nodded in her own wisdom. But Grantaire could see her looking past him, to Enjolras. “Does she truly prefer her family name?”

“I wouldn’t have said she did otherwise, Mother. Stop craning your neck, you’ll turn into a bird.”

Queen Pinar giggled at herself and settled back into her seat. “I’m just so curious about her. She’s a mysterious soul. And to come in breeched? How odd! Elusian women are always skirted and so extravagantly dressed!”

“Well, our cultures are mixing. Perhaps she’s taking initiative to start the fashion herself.” Fashion in Elus was cultural thing, and every piece of clothing meant something. To most Ketorians, iclothing was just that: clothing. “Or perhaps she likes trousers. You yourself wear trousers weekly.” The queen laughed at that and gently nudged his shoulder. “Anyways, she’s the pr...our nobility now as well. She may do as she wishes.”

He just hoped he came to know her a little bit better.

**~~~**

After breakfast, Enjolras left with her parents and other high-ranking Elusians for a quick tour of the castle, and Grantaire was free before their meeting. He took the chance to go for a run with a couple guards. The exertion pleased him and he was looking forward to getting in some training with the soldiers later on. It had been a few days since he had spoken with the Captain of the Guard - Francois Bahorel, a couple years Grantaire’s senior and the strongest man he had ever seen - and he was Grantaire’s closest friend. He surely would want to hear about the wedding night. Bahorel knew of Grantaire’s disinterest in sex, and was one of the only ones, so only he would appreciate the truth.

Before that, however, he had to go to that meeting. That required a change of sweaty clothing, so he found himself traipsing up to his rooms then back down. But he took a side staircase back to the main floor of the castle, enjoying a brief moment alone. Grantaire was an extrovert by nature and enjoyed being with or talking to people. But sometimes even he needed a second to himself.

He didn’t even have a room to himself anymore, and possibly never would again. Would he miss it? Grantaire thought maybe. But he was adaptable. And honestly, he could get nearly unbearably lonely in the quiet of the night. It was one of the reasons he could often stay out late into the night, out at taverns in the city. Coming home buzzed could really take the edge off of the shadows. So maybe having someone to come home _to_ would help. He could do this, if he could become friendly with his wife, at least. She was mysterious, though.

At first, Grantaire assumed that she was scared. New country, marrying a man she had never met. That would explain a distance on anyone’s part. Throughout the wedding she had been reserved, and during the ball and festival, she had spoken with people, but seemed uncomfortable. That too, Grantaire could mark down as nerve, as worry, or shy.

So he tried to make her feel comfortable, especially when they were alone. That was why he wanted to make sure she knew he wouldn’t try to ravish or anything like that. It wasn’t like he was disgusted by sex like some people were, and he would be open to trying one day with the right person; sex just wasn’t a priority for him. He thought that might have comforted her, but she had still left. And she seemed as if she was just so far away. She was clearly not shy - she spoke boldy to him and was clearly not frightened of him. Enjolras just seemed as if she was in another world, and not in the dreaming way.

He would try not to take it personally. After all, they were just strangers. They might grow to be friends, maybe more. They were expected to have a child, but there was nothing wrong with taking a ward if that wasn’t in their future. Grantaire was nervous over what would happen, of course, but not negatively so. He was sort of looking forward to the adventure. At least it would break up the monotonous days.

And maybe, just maybe, having someone in his bed would clear up that misery that could radiate from his bones after the sun went down and everyone was asleep. Just another person there, even asleep...it could help this problem he didn’t know how to talk about. 

“I just don’t understand why you can’t LISTEN to me, Aurore!”

The voice, clearly angry, drew Grantaire out of his thoughts.He slowed his footsteps, knowing that voice. The queen of Elus, Queen Yseult, speaking to her daughter. Chastising, it sounded like. “I told you not to embarrass us, and look at what you did! Coming down wearing pants? It’s ridiculous. You are going to be the queen of a brand new nation and I want you to act like it.”

“Mother,” came Enjolras’ voice. “Please. I am not going to be kicked out of the nation for pants. People of every gender wear pants here, and I have seen dresses on a variety of people as well. It’s a different country, and soon will be part of ours. The wedding has happened already and we will not be turned away. Plus, Grantaire and his mother didn’t seem to bat an eyelash.”

“Oh, I saw the way the queen looked at you! She’s disappointed, just too gracious to say anything! I don’t know how I raised someone so impertinent.”

Grantaire took a quiet step down. He didn’t like the sounds of this. Over pants? Were they truly quarreling over something so small?

“Mother, I am married now and I would like to think that means I am an adult, so if I may - “

“You most certainly may not!” Queen Yseult’s loud voice echoed up the stairwell. 

So Grantaire started to whistle a jaunty tune, letting them know someone was on the way, and he stomped his feet on each step. No need to embarrass anybody. He just wanted to stop the screaming - anybody could hear them from where they were. As he rounded the final twist to the bottom of the stairs, he finally saw them, now pulled apart. Enjolras had her arms folded in front of her, and her mother was adjusting her own hair. “Oh, Hercule! Good afternoon.”

He could hear the falseness in the queen’s voice. “Good afternoon,” he said anyways, smiling through the bad taste in his mouth like a champion. “It’s nearly time for the meeting with our messengers from the West. May I escort you both to our council room?”

“That would be lovely,” the queen said, taking Grantaire’s elbow without being offered. She dragged him off without waiting for Enjolras, but as she spoke about how pleased they all were, Grantaire turned around. He held his hand out to Enjolras; at the last moment, she took it, and caught up to them.

He still wasn’t sure about her and what she thought about him, or anything, but Grantaire would not let anyone be screamed at that way. Especially not his new wife. They may have made an odd couple, but Grantaire was nothing if not loyal, to his parents, his country. And now he was married, so he would be loyal to Enjolras as well - whatever that entailed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I would love some feedback.


	3. Challenge

“What do you mean, separate countries?” Grantaire asked. True, his mother had said it before, but it had not really clicked with him. Political intrigue was honestly never one of his strong suits. “I was under the impression that the West, the continent, was also one large country.”

“It was,” said the royal advisor, who was sitting with a stranger Grantaire assumed was her trainee. “But they have been so split into different interest groups and different fractions that they have created smaller countries within the borders, each trying to rise to power and changing to quickly within borders and names that we cannot keep up. It is simpler to call it all the West.”

The royal tutor raised his finger in the air. “Though, you would know this if you ever paid attention during our sessions, my prince. I’ve discussed it at length.”

Grantaire tried to look ashamed, but was really smiling sheepishly as he looked down at the table and his parchment. He just couldn’t pay attention to that sort of stuff! He loved to learn, loved history, but where borders lay? It fell on deaf ears with him. Perhaps, for a prince, that wasn’t great, but he could not necessarily help it. Still, he tried! “Well then, let me be enlightened - which countries are we facing?”

“It’s three of them, the three largest,” the advisor spoke up. “Combeferre, will you get me the map?”

The young man next to him stood and rolled out his map of the Western continent. With a large, dark hand, he pointed to three areas in succession. “Huntana, Polonia, and Somon. They are the three that have been the most united front.” This Combeferre fellow had a calm, soothing voice, rich in its smoothness. Grantaire was pleased with him, his intelligent appearance and mellow demeanor.

“They want to create a group of states united under one country, like The United Lands of Zotolya to the South. And they seem to think, from what our messengers and spies say, that if they as a united front can conquer another country - especially a rich one such as our newfound nation here - that they will be able to win over their neighbouring countries and set everything in stone.” He looked over everyone there. “They have an extensive military and much hired muscle, as well as a certain lack of the ethics of war most of the current countries consider when they take on such a venture.”

“Thank you,” King Daxton, Enjolras’ father, said. “For someone who seems determined to bring about a united front, they don’t seem to have much faith in ours. Do they not know that we have been integrating our militaries, deciding upon policies, and crafting new strategies for long before this wedding?”

“I am certain that they do, Father,” Enjolras spoke up. She rose up to get closer to the map, and while Grantaire noticed a hard look in her mother’s eye, his own mother nodded in approval. Even though Grantaire had not picked his bride, his mother’s approval of her meant a great deal to him. “I believe that, with the strength of our two countries now joined, they believe that a victory over us will be a display of power to the rest of the world. We are now a superpower, that is clear to everyone - look at all the gifts being sent from every continent, trying to gain our favor. So if you bring down a superpower, you become a superpower. And while I fully support their revolution in the past, I do not believe that the ways they are handling things now are correct.”

Grantaire’s heart picked up a little speed. Goodness. “Well, perhaps since revolting is how they came to be, revolting is all they know. They had to take their freedom, so they are willing to take anything else that they want.. You cannot necessarily blame them for something when it was all that has worked for them in the past.”

Enjolras looked at him curiously, but Queen Pinar spoke up. “Either way, they cannot be allowed to simple cross our borders, injure our people, and attack our crown. It’s not done. We have been sending them message after message, from literal decrees to fending off every single attempt of invasion, that we will not sit idly by and let them slither in.”

“Of course not,” said the advisor. "But here is what I have been thinking, your majesty..."

The meeting was long and drawn out, and more often than not Grantaire was playing rapt attention. This was his country, his people that were in danger. And he wanted to help. But when the talk got a little too technical. He drifted off into fantasy. Enjolras never did. Enjolras kept working, kept talking, kept plotting. And Grantaire? He was doodling. Just etching lines into his paper absent-mindedly as he watched the passionate way Enjolras spoke, the line of her jaw, the fire in her eyes.

At the end of the meeting, when they were finally allowed to stand and leave, Queen Pinar peeked over Grantaire’s shoulder. “I saw you sketching,” she whispered, as if sharing a naughty secret. “What were you drawing?”

He looked down at his parchment. Honestly, he hadn’t even been paying attention to what he was drawing. On his paper, a beauty had taken form, with a set jaw, curls down to her waist, and proud shoulders. Without even noticing it, he had been drawing Enjolras.

The Queen smiled, the curve of her lips sneaky. “Ah. I see. I’m going to assume that things are going well between the two of you, then?”

Not wanting to disappoint her, and a bit embarrassed by the drawing, Grantaire offered a smile of his own. “I think this all will work out just fine.”

**~~~**

The next morning (see: early afternoon), Grantaire woke lazily, dressed lazily, and wandered slowly downstairs. A glance out the window showed him bright summer skies, a breeze making the leaves dance and shake. Since no one seemed to be hunting him down with any important messages, he turned on his heel and headed for the stables. It was nice to be out, unbound, without anything pressing to do. Of course his new marriage, new country, and the looming invaders were always on his mind, but for now he was relatively free and able to just spend time with his horse. She was a large girl, the largest breed they had, and had been with Grantaire since she was no more than a foal. He had only been 6, and loved her right away. Now, 13 years later, she still had at least another 15 years left and he rode her as often as he could. Her name was Bijoux and Grantaire would never love another horse as he did her.

He expected the stables to be empty of anyone save stable staff and bird pecking for leftover food that morning, so he was surprised to see hustle and bustle as he approached. The stable staff were rushing to and fro with a saddle he had never seen, and muttering softly to a beautiful copper horse that had never before been in the saddles. Surely it was an Elusian beast, and Grantaire was enraptured. “Hello,” he said quietly yet jovially. The staff members turned and, upon seeing who their guest was, bowed deeply. “Who do we have here?”

“This is the mare of Princess Aurore,” said the marshal, who was in charge of the horses among other things. “She wishes to ride this afternoon. Shall you be joining her, your highness?”

Grantaire thought for a moment about the staff - they were of a lower rank than Enjolras, so surely they should call her by her title, but she expressed strong opposition to the use of her first name. Calling her ‘Princess Enjolras’ seemed very odd, but they couldn’t call her just ‘Enjolras.’

“My name is Prince Enjolras,” came a voice as Enjolras herself came strolling out of the stables, in a black tunic and white riding trousers that could possibly kill a man. Her boots were up to the knee and gave her a boost of height that still left her quite short. He face was stony and her voice that was sure. But one look at her face and Grantaire could tell that she wasn’t as sure as she sounded. 

The marshal nodded, but there was confusion in his eyes. “Yes, your highness. Forgive me this mistake.”

“No mistake,” she said, inclining her head and checking the saddle on her mount. “Is she ready?”

“Yes, yes. Will your husband be joining you?” Because the marshal was looking so pleadingly at him for help, Grantaire stepped forward.

He winked at his new spouse and clapped a hand over his heart. “If you will have me, dearest,” he said through a warm, honest smile. “Then I would be honoured.”

“We’ve said our vows,” Enjolras said, elegantly pulling herself into the saddle. “Doesn’t that mean you have my answer?”

That made Grantaire laugh. “You heard her! Bring me Bijoux as quickly as you can!”

Once the marshal had disappeared, Enjolras looked down at Grantaire from her perch. One hand gently stroked the main of her horse. “Bijoux? Your horse is named Bijoux? That sounds more suitable to a small fluffy dog. Or a doll.”

“Bijoux is a thing of beauty, unbearably so. Just wait until you see her!” Grantaire walked closer to Enjolras and her horse, then held out a hand. The horse snuffled against his palm, but quickly lost interest when she saw that he had no treats to offer her. “What did you name YOURS, then? Horse?”

“Patria.”

Grantaire burst out laugh so hard, hard enough to make that poorly-named horse step back. He had his hand clapped to his chest again, but this time to keep his heart inside of him instead for posturing, and his shoulders were shaking. The horse and Enjolras wore matching expressions of disdain, and that just served to make him laugh even harder. “Patria! How on Earth did you come up with THAT?”

“She is the same colour as my father’s armour and our family seal. Warm, rich copper. I love Elus and wanted everyone to know that when I rode this horse into battle, it was for them.” She DID look regal, high on that horse.

“I...I did not think Elusian women went into battle,” he said, using every bit of concentration he had to stop himself from laughing. They had to stop thinking of it as Elus, or Ketor. In a few days the announcement of the new name would be made - surely he would hear of it before then.

“Perhaps Elusian women don’t. But I am...a royal.” Her demeanor faded a little bit. But she shook her head, tossed her golden curls. “I do as I please. I fought in the Peraesean War only a few years back.”

Grantaire’s face brightened, in joy and surprise. That this woman before him had fought in battle though it was not in her culture to do so pleased him - it meant she had valor. It never occurred to him that she may be lying, because he could so easily see her riding through bodies and taking on men twice her size. Even during that war, when she could have seen no more than sixteen summers. “That war saw a many great battles. Which were you in?”

“The Battle of Helinor and the Battle of Valay.” Enjolras pushed up her left sleeve to reveal a jagged scar that Grantaire, having never gotten that close to her except for the wedding, where she was covered, had never before laid eyes on. From a - “

“Peraesean scythe,” Grantaire said. “I’d recognize it anywhere.” He grinned, not because she had been injured, but for another reason entirely. He wrestled his doublet off and pulled the bottom hem of his shirt up. When he turned around, he revealed a scar running diagonally across his back, with the same jagged pattern. “I’ve run into one of those myself.”

Enjolras was watching him with much interest once he turned around again. “And lived to tell the tale. Was that encounter in the same war?”

That made Grantaire pause in his struggles to pull his doublet back on. “Ah, actually...THAT was a bar fight only a year ago. I was trying out my Peraesean, which is dreadful, and when I thought I said ‘This pork stew is delicious,’ apparently I said something more like ‘Your husband lays with pigs in hell.’ The woman did...not take it kindly, as you can see.”

And then Enjolras laughed. It was loud and abrasive and nothing like how a princess should laugh. Grantaire loved it. “Well I cannot blame her. Shall we head on?”

For Bijoux had been brought out, in all of her beauty and glory. Grantaire greeted her with a nuzzle and a carrot, taken from one of the stable staff. He swung onto her back, his beautifully decorated saddle. Enjolras, still not aware of the surrounding landscape, let Grantaire lead them out of the castle grounds and down towards the water. They moved slowly at first, side by side with each other. Neither said anything - Grantaire saw Enjolras looking at the beautiful scenery of Ketor and didn’t want to distract her. 

And honestly, the scenery was something to look at for Grantaire as well. Not the rolling verdant hills, not the ancient art that was built into cliffs, into the castle, into houses. Not bright blue skies with lazy wisps of clouds, not the sunflowers attempting to reach the sky. Grantaire had seen all of those things hundreds of times before. It was Enjolras framed against all of those things, her hair wild and loose down her back, her perfect posture, even the way she gripped the reins. Grantaire was aware that his cheeks were heating up, so he pushed Bijoux a little harder.

“Let me bring you to the shoreline,” he said from just ahead of her. “You have never visited our northern beaches, no?”

“Not once, though I have long been curious.” She pushed her horse forward to bring them nose to nose. Grantaire turned to see a gleam in her eye.

He gave a wicked grin, a wink, then took off. When he heard hooves pounding behind him, he laughed wildly. “Catch me if you can!”

“Those are awfully big words for someone about to be overtaken,” came words from behind him. Then beside him. Then in front of him as Enjolras took the lead. Another savage laugh. They raced evenly, one taking the lead and then the other, Enjolras bringing Patria into a beautiful leap over a fallen branch, Grantaire expertly avoiding a child who ran into the path from the yard of a house they passed. It was fun, free, wild, and made Grantaire feel like they could definitely be friends. He always loved having somebody to compete with, who was not afraid to give it their all.

The beach was not far from the castle, and Grantaire was a little disappointed to see the sand stretching across their vision. It was a long, meandering line where land met water, with tall birds dotting the shallows, trees arching over the water in some places, and bright blue water as far as the eye could see. Despite their racing, they slowed as the horses met the sand, before any winner could be deduced. Enjolras was looking over the scenery in awe.

“Beautiful,” Enjolras said, looking over the sand. There was something very special about the beaches of northern Ketor - the sands were a beautiful pale pink, nearly pastel. Like the colour of the inside of a clam shell, the sand shined and glimmered in the sun, the waves tinted it darker as the surf crashed to land. “When I heard pink, I never thought it would be like this. I assumed hints of the colour along the shore. But it’s truly everywhere. Astonishing. Is it made by humans? Magic?”

“Gorgeous, I know. And no, it's all natural. I come out to here to paint sometimes, and the person who provides me with my paints uses this sand to pigment a special colour - called Ketorian Pink, of course - that is shipped all over the world. No other pink can compare.”

Enjolras swung off Patria and let her boots hit the sand. She bent down and scooped up a handful; the pink sand dribbled through her fingers, spattering onto the tops of her boots. “I can see why. It’s lovely.

“I didn’t know you painted. I was not told much of you before this wedding.”

“Nor I, you,” Grantaire admitted. “But yes, I do paint. I took it up when during a stint with a broken leg when I was 7 or 8 and ended up loving it. Now I believe I have quite a talent for it. I can show you when we return to the castle, if you like. In fact, it would be an honour...and a chance to show off. Have you any artistic skill?”

Her shoulders shook in what he thought may have been a laugh. “To my mother’s chagrin, no. I neither paint nor sketch, have no hands for embroidery or needlework. I cannot even play an instrument, though if you ask mother I was an excellent flutist before I ruined my hands with swordplay. I never was, but I will let her have her fantasy. The closest I came was owning a flute. Sadly, it was left behind in the move.” Enjolras turned to look at him. “I would enjoy seeing your paintings, as long as you do not expect any serious conversation about color palettes or symbolism.”

“I would never!” He pressed his hand to his chest. “I swear on my crown that I will not try to give you an education in art.”

“You should have said that during the wedding,” she said, smile fading a bit. “That. That was strange, was it not?”

They hadn’t really discussed the wedding much, as it made both of them rather uncomfortable. Despite sharing a bed for two nights, they had hardly had chance to speak alone. Grantaire dismounted Bijoux, keeping a hand on her reins. He looked out over the water, the birds, the distant ships floating in the distance. Their armada, protecting them, was floating just barely in their sight, small blobs full or armed guards, military archers, and powerful mages. “It was. But if we can protect our people...it was worth it. I would say.”

“And I as well. Our new country will be able to push these invaders back.” Enjolras dragged her eyes from the horizon to Grantaire. “But our marriage. The thing itself, it...may be trying.”

“Are you planning on making it that way?” Grantaire teased.

Enjolras sighed and petted Patria’s nose. “Not necessarily. But it is always a possibility.”

And there it was. She was distant again, seeming so far away. As if she lived on a distant star, orbiting a world Grantaire could never understand. He did not see what had happened. Grantaire had assumed that she was having as good a time as he was; perhaps that was presumptuous of him. But still, they had gone from talking and laughing to her absent-mindedly picking leaves from her horse’s mane.

“...dear, is everything alright? You seem so very far away.”

“Things are fine. And we’re alone, so you needn’t call me ‘dear.’” Enjolras stuck her foot in the stirrup and threw her leg over her horse.

Grantaire could not find a smile. “Do you think I am acting?”

She looked at him, sun glowing above her. “Do you love me?”

“Well...we’ve only just met.” What did she want? He was feeling distinctly unhappier than he had been just a moment ago. “But I mean. I would like to be friendly even in private. We should at least be friends.”

“Friends,” Enjolras repeated. “Friends, perhaps. But I cannot encourage more. I need you to know that I cannot encourage more than that. I understand what this wedding was for, Hercule, and I can support it. But...there can be no more than duty between us. I am sorry if you were expecting more.”

Grantaire honestly did not know what he was expecting, what he had been expecting upon learning of the wedding. But he had not been expecting such a blatant refusal of anything, before they even had a chance to begin to build any sort of relationship. “I...understand. May I ask, though...why?”

“Is my word not enough?” she asked. Her blues gave a dangerous flash.

“No. It is. Forgive me.” Did she forget how he had not attempted to bed her in a way many other men would have? Would have seen it as a right? Not that he expected praise for being a decent human being - no, he would never, he understood that nothing about her was his to take. He felt greasy, dirty, for even thinking like that. “But. Friendship? Is that still an option?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “That, I believe we can do.”

He would make do with that. Grantaire found her fascinating, yes, but he did not think he had ever been expecting a whirlwind romance. He had not expected to be swept off of his feet, had not expected to do any sweeping himself. Just as this was for her, it was for him - duty. But it would be much easier if they got along.

**~~~**   


Only a day later, Grantaire’s vow of friendship found itself being tested. That morning, Enjolras and himself had been woken very early by the arrival of another member of court, who had been unable to join them for the wedding - Enjolras’ lady-in-waiting. Lady Cosette Fauchlevent, daughter of the Duke of Montreuil, had been a lifetime friend to Enjolras, and she seemed truly pleased at the arrival. They went off on their own almost immediately, and Grantaire was left to himself.

He spent some time with his mother in her salon, until he was reminded of that damned speech he had completely forgotten about. He even went into the castle library to work, sealed off in the corner and surrounded by books just create a wall between himself and the distractions of the outside world. 

Despite his procrastination, Grantaire truly wanted to give a good speech, to rouse his people and create hope. But he was also a realist who did not sugarcoat things. Not only was there no point, but he believed that his people deserved honesty, even when it was some brutal, dark thing they did not want to hear. He had a few critics that called him pessimistic, cynical, and maybe he was. But Grantaire also believed that is was best to be prepared for the worst. Just in case. So his speech would reflect that. The hope of the best, of pushing back, of defending their homeland, and the reality that things might be difficult, dangerous, and lives could be put at stake. Dark? Yes. But it was truthful, and he would rather give his people a lie and have them know the truth than lie to them just to keep them happy.

But eventually it was too much for him. The sun was high in the sky when he emerged from his library prison to drop his speech off in his room. After so much time sitting, reading, writing, proofreading, Grantaire had to get out, do something, move his body. So he changed into something better for physical exertion and headed downstairs to where the barracks were, the training and sparring ring, where all of the guards and military troops trained, battled, bonded. It was Grantaire’s favourite place on all of the castle grounds. He had made his closest friends there and spent most of his childhood, during good weather AND bad.

It was a busy place almost around the clock, except during meal times. The clash of swords, the singe of magic in the air, the smell of mud, blood, sweat. But today it seemed louder, busier, crazier. Almost as if there were a tourney. Perhaps they were just practicing for the exhibition during the festival. 

As he got closer, Grantaire’s question was answered. Enjolras was sitting along the side with Lady Cosette and a handful of other noble ladies. They had a small picnic set up and were watching the goings on, cheering and offering encouragements. As Grantaire watched, one of the guards currently fighting defeated her opponent. There was polite applause, under a loud cheer that Grantaire could hardly believe came from Lady Cosette’s tiny frame. One of the ladies stood and approached the fence, then held out a handkerchief to the guard. With a bow the guard took it kindly and tied it to the end of the handle of her sword. She held it up in the air in triumph, causing a great cheer from the other guard, applauding her victory both with the ladies and over her opponent.

“Ah, I wondered what all of the excitement was,” Grantaire said once he was close enough to the picnic to be heard. “I did not realize that I would find all of my guards showing off down here. Who do I have to blame?”

“Me,” spoke up Lady Cosette, raising one dainty hand in the air. “I very much wanted to see your troops in action, your highness. They certainly are an impressive bunch.”

He raised a finger to his lips. “Don’t let them hear you say that, dear lady. Poor Bahorel has a hard enough time keeping them in line as it is.”

“Would that be the captain?”

“It most certainly would be.” Grantaire turned to the ring. “Bahorel, you sweaty beast, are you out there somewhere!?”

A loud rumbling laugh met him from the other side of the fence. “Indeed I am, your highness! Did you send these ladies out here to finally whip my troops into shape? They’ve never fought as well as today!”

Bahorel was a large man, taller than Grantaire, with nearly golden skin and a wide smile to match. His hair, dark brown, fell in waves over a masculine face, curling just above his shoulders. A heavy scar fell diagonally across his face, and only added to his handsome visage. Grantaire tossed himself over the fence and caught him up in a rough embrace. “A choice all their own! Lady Cosette here wanted to see them.”

Lady Cosette stood up, gave a small curtsy, and flounced over to them. She looked like a small, mobile cake in all pink and white. “Captain, a pleasure. I do enjoy seeing a finely tuned machine like yours in action.”

“Finely tuned? My lady, that is an honour.” He gave a sweeping bow with so much flourish that all of the ladies laughed, except for Enjolras. But Grantaire saw that small smile on her face. “Though our prince here puts them all to shame. He is a master swordsman.”

“Would you like a demonstration?” Grantaire asked.

The ladies all agreed that they would, clamouring to see the prince at battle. Yet again, there was no answer from Enjolras. Bahorel winked at Grantaire. “And you, Prince Enjolras? Would you see how your husband handles a sword?”

Grantaire could kiss him - obviously word was spreading, and Bahorel was listening. Enjolras stood and wiped the dirt from his trousers. “No. I would not."

He was a little disappointed, but thought back to their ride yesterday. Perhaps this had something do to wit that? He didn't see how it could, but who knew how Enjolras thought. 

“I would feel for myself. Captain, if you would find me a sword I shall take on Hercule myself. If you will have me?” Her eyes were daring and bright.

Grantaire's heart jumped into his throat. “I am eager to see the skill of one who fought in Peraesea. Will you have armor?”

“Only if you must.” Enjolras cleared the fence with ease to land inside the ring, and turned to Lady Cosette. “Will you restrain this mess?”

Enjolras’ blonde curls, which were loose as they often were, fell down to past her waist. Yet, it took Lady Cosette only a moment to braid it, then produce pins form who knew where and pin it up out of the way. It was clear that it was something they had done hundreds of times before. As Lady Cosette worked, Enjolras told Bahorel of her own sword, which was still being inventoried, and the type of steel she best liked to fight with. 

Since his wife would not take armor unless he would, Grantaire decided to show no weakness in the request for any of his own. Something in Enjolras’ smile seemed approving. They both were armed, Grantaire with his two-handed great sword and Enjolras with a basket-handled slim sword that she weighed in her hand before agreeing to use. 

“To the blood, Hercule?” she shouted out, a dare.

“To the blood!”

A loud cry came up from guard and lady alike as the battle started. It was slow to begin with, the newlyweds circling each other, sizing each other up. Enjolras made an advance, with Grantaire blocked. When he did the same, she blocked him with a simple flick of her wrist. “I was raised to use magic, not a sword,” she said, a smug look on her face.

“I would never know.” A few more advances, a block, a block, a parry. And then Enjolras lunged, caused Grantaire to fade. A quick turn, and they were getting into the thick of things. His blade would catch his shirt, her blade would catch his hair. But no blood, not from either of them. 

Enjolras looked as if she would tire easily, but Grantaire was never one to be fooled by appearance alone. So he would ignore his brief idea of running her down, using up a huge spurt of energy and then striking when she was tired. Plus, he was having a good time - it was interesting to see what she could do. Where Grantaire’s motions were big and grandiose, hers were subtle and precise. Where he had power, she had strategy. Even their swords were as opposite as could be.

Grantaire was thrilled. She was a wonderful sparring partner - he would bet anything that she was even more amazing in a true battle. Not that he wished for war, but if it became a reality, he wanted to ride at Enjolras’ side.

In the hot sun, he was sweating quickly, and could tell that she was doing the same. And then she seemed to be falling back. Perhaps she was tiring after all. Grantaire pressed forward, sensing the edge of the match. He lunged and Enjolras fell back. “Are you tired?” Grantaire called out, advancing once more. “Should we stop?”

“The only thing I’m tired of is hearing you gloat!” she shot back, pulling off an excellent short guard that stopped his sword cold to a soundtrack of laughter.

“Then shall we end this?” He pushed forward, ready to end this. Grantaire raised his sword to the side, ready to swing across his body, nick her arm. It was a movement that was one the quickest in his book.

But she was quicker. Enjolras ducked under the sword and came up on the other side, between Grantaire and his blade. She threw herself not forward, where he was ready to grab her wrist with hand that he had yet to pass the sword into, but sideways into his other arm. Her elbow collided with his, causing him to let go of his sword. The sudden loss of balance sent him tumbling backwards, onto his behind. Enjolras got a foot on his shoulder and pushed him down until he was on his back. With one flick of her sword, he had a small cut on his cheek. As the crowd watched in silence, the cu welled in one bead of blood that dripped down his cheek and plopped into the dirt.

“I do believe I just did.”

Grantaire heard the crowd cheering for that display, and if he had any strength in him, he would have cheered as well. But all he could do was look up at her, looming above him, heel on his shoulder and blade aimed at his face. She was unbelievable. Insurmountable. Unattainable.

His heart was racing, and it had little to do with the exercise.

**~~~**

"My friends call me Grantaire," he said to her as they lay in the dark that night.

"What?" Enjorlas asked, and he could feel her shifting.

He sighed, eyes closed. "My friends call me Grantaire. If we're to be friends...you can, too. If you want to use 'Hercule,' be my guest. I just thought I would let you know. I'm sure you understand. After all, you're much the same, are you not?"

"I suppose," she said. More shifting, and he could tell she had turned away from him. But he wasn't disappointed, because just a moment later, he heard, "I think Grantaire suits you better. It's more down to earth."

Something about that kept a smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have little confidence in my skills at writing fight scenes and know nothing about sword fighting, but this gets the point across!
> 
> Thanks for reading! I would love some feedback!


	4. Threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some almost-vague mentioned past sexual abuse in this chapter, and some present-tense violence.

“Our new country shall be called Aenorium Valoris,” Queen Pinar announced to the gathered court. She sat on her throne, equal in size, beauty, and grandeur to the king’s, which sat to her left. It was open, empty, waiting for King Heitor, her husband and Grantaire’s father, to return from his visit overseas, trying to smooth things out with the dissenters in the West. Grantaire, who was sitting on the other side if the empty throne, had every right to claim the seat in his father’s absence, especially after his wedding. But it didn’t feel right to him, to sit in the throne while his father still breathed - hopefully he would not have to take that seat as his own for a long time to come. To his other side, King Daxton. Enjolras and Queen Yseult sat to his mother’s other side, but due to the curvature of the seats, Grantaire could still see them. It was all in the name of equality. This would be the the head seat of the country, so they wanted to make sure that everyone was as comfortable as possible.  
In front of them, in equally well-planned seating arrangements, were the previous courts of Elus and Ketor. Now, they were the joint court of Aenorium Valoris, looking at their rulers. Grantaire enjoyed the name, it seemed to fit both countries and made him proud that, one day, it would be his.

One high lord stood and, when the queen gestured to him, bowed. “Your royal majesty, what shall the world call our people?”

“We’ve discussed this at length with our policy-makers, advisors, and even linguists. The Enjolras family, my son, and I, believe that the best title for our new people will show every country on the planet that we are strong, we are brave, and we have honour. You may all now consider yourself Valorians.”

A murmuring of approval rang through the hall, and Grantaire glanced at King Daxton, who had been the one to suggest it.But then, a different sort of grumble. Possible discontent. After a moment, a duke of what was previous Elus stood and bowed as well. “Forgive me, your majesties, but how can such a decision be made without King Heitor’s presence?”

“As always, with the King away from court, any decision he would make falls to myself, then Prince Hercule. I understand that the courts of our previous countries are very different, but in our land, all genders are equal and my saying power is equal to that of my husband.” The queen was kind about it, and the duke returned to his seat. “Good people, do you find this name acceptable? Any dissent will be heard and taken into consideration before the announcement of the name is announced on the first day of the festival. If you do not wish to approach us directly, our advisors shall remain in court to take any issue you may wish to report.”

There seemed to be no outwards opposition to the name, which pleased Grantaire - he was not looking forward to a long, drawn-out session at court today. Of course, he would be here for hours either way, but knowing that one thing was most likely decided eased some of his stress about the whole thing.

He was dying for a rest, honestly. The past two nights, the dark thoughts that he could not keep away circled in his head. Enjolras’ presence had not helped as he had hoped, and Grantaire had not slept well. How could he, with thoughts of...well, thoughts he didn’t like to discuss, ones he liked to drink away at the tavern or bruise away in the ring. Grantaire had not gone out into town on his own as he used to, thinking that in his first week with a new wife, it might send the wrong message to the people if he was seen galavanting around alone after sundown. But he missed it. Perhaps he should just send down to the kitchens for some ale before bedtime. He’d try tonight - anything, anything at all to help him sleep. It was all he could do to stay awake when the sun was up, though, and one time Enjolras’ father had to discretely poke Grantaire in the side to get him to wake up. He repaid that a grin, which King Daxton returned. Grantaire knew which of his wife’s parents he was more fond of, that was certain.

After the long time spent in the courtroom, dealing with nobles, listening to complaints, passing out judgements, they were finally, finally free. Grantaire was thinking of heading upstairs and trying to nap. If he could just slip out unseen, then maybe he get upstairs and - 

“Hercule, darling!”

Damn. But he turned with a bright smile, because he knew that voice. Queen Yseult was bustling towards him. She took his arm happily after he offered her a small bow. “Such a gentleman as always,” she said. “You know, I was hoping that tomorrow you could take my daughter out to see the city. She’s seen none of it, and I think being immersed with the people she is meant to rule could do her some good.”

“A fair enough idea in itself, my lady,” Grantaire said with a nod. Since it seemed as if a nap was out of the question, he steered the queen towards the garden. “Is this a request from Enjolras herself?”

The queen patted his arm. “You sweet it is of you to entertain her little fancies my dear, but you needn’t. She is Princess Aurore and one day, Queen Aurore, and that is something she must come to not only accept but embrace.”

Grantaire felt decidedly not good about this. “I will call her as she asks me to, your majesty. After all, she is my wife and I strive for her happiness.”

“The thing is,” Queen Yseult said as they left the castle and moved into a less busy territory on their way to the garden. “Aurore does not always have her own best interests at heart. She is impulsive and does what will please her for the moment without thinking it through, or taking any consequences into consideration. My daughter is a smart girl but she must have a strong hand to guide her, and if you would - “

It was not his nature to interrupt a queen, but Grantaire did not like where this was going. “I believe that Enjolras,” he said, mostly because that was what his wife preferred, but at least a little out of spite, “has a strong enough hand to guide herself. She seems to me to be a woman with well-thought out ideas and a will enough to make them happen. I’ve seen her with the advisors, the guards. I believe in her, your majesty.”

A very sour look passed over the queen’s face. But then she replaced it with a gentle smile so convincing that, had he not seen the change in expression, Grantaire would have believed. “And that shows what a good, understanding man you are, my dear. But I know Aurore better than anybody, and I know what she needs. To be kept under a strong thumb, and as her husband, you have a right and, I would say, a duty to do that. Not only to keep her safe and happy, but for your kingdom! Today, she wants to wear breeches and be called by her middle name, tomorrow she may want to wage war on Lymbique.”

“That is quite a jump, Queen Yseult.” Grantaire definitely did not like this, and his mind was churning with ways to get out of this conversation. “May I ask you a question? Did your daughter not fight in the Peraesean War?”

“Yes, despite my best efforts. She ran off with a group of page boys and showed up at her father’s tent with a sword, ready to duel him for the right to fight for her country. I was mortified, and terrified that she would be injured. My dear husband has always had a soft spot for the girl, and let her have the duel. He must have let her win, because she defeated him and stayed for that excursion.” She let a hand flutter to her chest and looked at the ground sadly. “It was the longest year of my life.”

Grantaire patted the hand she kept in the crook of his elbow. “You must have suffered greatly with your family so far and in so much danger,” he agreed. “But was that war not four years ago? And I would guess that your daughter was asking to be called by her family name back then, as well?”

“Indeed, Hercule. Why do you ask?”

“Because it seems to me that such a thing cannot be impulsive if it has been going on for so many years. I appreciate all of your advice, honestly, but I do believe that Enjolras and I have reached an agreement that I am happy to honour. I am pleased to do whatever makes her the most comfortable and happiest in her new home.” Hopefully the queen would leave to her castle in the south after the festival as was the plan.

“Hercule, have you slept with my daughter?”

He stopped dead in his track, unable to keep his shock from his face. “Quee-”

“I firmly believe,” she said, voice stony in a way Grantaire was familiar with after Enjolras, “that once my daughter is with child, she will calm down and be the princess and queen we require. She needs to simply awaken to her womanhood and I believe that all will be well.”

Trying to keep civil, Grantaire pulled his arm from her. “You royal majesty, Enjolras and I are the only two people who need to know of what goes on in our chambers. And in my eyes, all is well right now.”

But the queen was not letting up. “From the time she was a little girl, Aurore needed special care, brought under control in certain ways. Her tomboy ways are no longer the charming behaviour of a child and I have been trying to remind her of her gender and sex for quite some time. She has always been - “

“Forgive me, Queen Yseult. I believe I hear my mother calling.” Grantaire felt sick, and whipped away, moving towards the castle and towards the woman that certainly had not called for him. But he could not be near Enjolras’ mother anymore. She was disgusting him. 

How could someone speak this way of their own daughter? As if she needed to be...fucked into submission. He shuddered just thinking about it, but that was the only thing he could bring from such a conversation. Maybe he was pushing his own issues on it. He didn’t know. He didn’t even know if that sort of thing had BEEN an issue for him. Things had been very fuzzy from that summer. But all he knew was that he needed to get away from that Queen, far away. She struck him in a way that worked into his bones in a most peculiar way. Grantaire needed to get away from the situation. He needed a nap. He needed a drink.

But first, he needed to check on Enjolras.

**~~~**

She was sitting in their rooms when Grantaire finally found her. There were two plush armchairs and Enjolras was curled up in one with her speech. As if Grantaire could think of something like that right now. She glanced up at him as he came into her view and settled in the empty chair.

“You don’t look well,” she said bluntly.

“I don’t feel well.” He felt better that they were both alone here, in their own space. “Enjolras, tell me something. Are you happy to be here?”

“I am happy to see new places,” she said. Enjolras was watching him so curiously, and he pushed his hair from his tired eyes. “And I am happy to be doing this for the country. You have a lovely home and it is very welcoming. Why?”

“It is a change for you. Shall you miss your parents?” He tried to seem casual. Maybe he shouldn’t jump to conclusions.

Enjolras scanned her speech as they spoke. “I shall miss my father. But you are an astute man - you have seen that my mother and I do not have a good relationship. You heard us in the stairwell.”

That was nearly all he needed to hear. He closed his eyes. “I did. I am sorry for that. I did not mean to eavesdrop but it was rather hard to ignore.”

“That was nothing,” she said with a raw laugh. “You should hear us when we really get going. It’s legendary and my maids told me that some of the servants made wagers on us. In fact, I even got in on it and would let it slip if I felt an argument brewing so my own staff could get in on the pool.  
“Look at you,” Enjolras added. “You’re exhausted. Go to bed.”

Grantaire chuckled, but he was already dozing. “Let me sleep here,” he mumbled.

“Go and sleep somewhere else. You’ll get a crick in your neck.”

But he was already asleep. 

When he woke up, a blanket was tucked around his shoulders and Enjolras was gone.

**~~~**

The next day, Grantaire asked Enjolras - and Enjolras alone - to go out into the city. They would be in the square all next week, so they decided to go into the fabric district in search of something for their outfits to wear during their speech. Too many guards followed them - six, which Grantaire found excessive. But his mother insisted, and he didn’t want her to worry They were armed as well, with their own swords - Enjolras’ had finally been inventoried and he seemed very pleased to have it at his side once more.

So there they were, walking down the already crowded street after a carriage ride from the castle. “We should probably wear our national colours,” Grantaire murmured. “Emerald and ruby.”

“I think we should. Perhaps if I take one and you take the other? Red was the colour from Elus, so I could take that.” Red and white had been Elus, green and white for Ketor. Since white and white would be a ridiculous colour scheme, red and green it was. 

“Green for me, then,” he agreed. Grantaire looked at the bolts of fabric hanging in windows. “Shall we have similar cuts or not?”

Enjolras stopped in front of one shop, looking at the offerings. “Does it matter much? I don’t often think much on clothing. I am happy enough to let the seamstresses decide on it.”

But she did seem to like the fabric, so they ducked inside the shop. They spent the morning shopping, picking out fabric, trim, buttons. Every shop that they visited was very excited for their patronage, so at least one of them tried to buy something in every shop they entered. Things seemed calm, and Grantaire was actually enjoying himself. It was nice to be out and about just having a good time. No concerns over offending Lord Who or Lady What by simply not noticing them passing by in the hallway, no worry that at any moment a page would show up with urgent work that must be completed right away. While Grantaire loved his people, being a prince was exhausting. Nothing was his own, not even his time, and even though he was rather in denial about how much work he honestly had to do - including that damned speech - Grantaire was always busy, always trying, always struggling. That was another reason he ran out to the ubs and taverns at night. To stop being Prince Hercule and just have a moment to be Grantaire.  
So this was nice. It was impossible to ignore that they were royalty, of course, but they could forget a little bit when out that way. Grantaire knew that HE needed that, and assumed that it would be beneficial to Enjolras. Especially to get her away from her mother.

After sleeping on it, twice, Grantaire still suspected her of something sinister when it came to Enjolras. Just. The way she had worded it. And what was also disgusting was that she seemed to think Grantaire would share her views, whatever they were. That made him feel ill - the last thing he wanted to put out that sort of feeling.

He tried not to think about it, however, and by the time they stopped for lunch at the grandest inn in the city, he had mostly succeeded. They ordered a good amount of food between them and the guards, but were left at a table of their own.

Grantaire’s mug of ale was large, and that pleased him. He looked over the top of it at Enjolras, who ate more like a very large guard than a very small princess. Well, not VERY small, but Grantaire was a large man, so she looked rather tiny to him. She was shoveling large spoonfuls of stew into her mouth with no real care if she was making a mess or looked proper.Grantaire felt the heat rise to his cheeks. Enjolras really was something else, wasn’t she?

However, she stopped when she noticed him watching. “What is it?” she asked, spoon almost to her lips. “Is something wrong?”

Grantaire looked down, lowered his ale. There was still a bemused smile on his face. Ah, he was staring, wasn’t he? “No, you’re just - “

“Your highness, get down!”

Before Grantaire could react, a guard was near him, pushing him down. Another was standing in front of him, facing away. A crash sounded through the inn - something being thrown through the glass - and was followed by screams. Smoke filled the room, and Grantaire knew immediately that they were facing a mage. At least one mage. 

He reached for his sword and ducked low, trying to glance at the turmoil through his guard’s legs. He wouldn’t hide behind them this whole time, not with his people in danger from whatever this attack was, but it would not do to simply go out there into a situation he couldn’t see without at least trying to see who the enemy was. Could he just blast the smoke away? Yes. But would he wait until it was the proper time? Of course.

Most of the guards were pushing through panicked civilians, attempting to stop figures emerging through the smoke. It was nearly impossible to tell who had been dining and who was behind this attack that Grantaire wished was at random, but knew it wasn’t - Ketor had no recent history of violent outbursts by the regular people. He knew that this was about himself and Enjolras. But were they Westerners? Were they some sort of rebels, revolting against as joining they never wanted? Were they after some sortof ransom? Grantaire didn’t know but he did know that he could no longer just sit and wait. He threw his hand out, summoning his wind. He hadn’t wanted to do it until he was ready to move, knowing that the smoke would give the attackers as much as pause it is was giving his guards.

There was a loud crack from his right, and the front door to the tavern burst open. Grantaire had a much better view of the door, making it easy to see the five figures rushing in. The smoke was much less thick over there, and he saw that they were all wearing armor, with swords or spears. That meant one thing - while they may HAVE magic, it was not their strong point. Mages rarely wore armor, trusting wards to protect them.

Grantaire was lucky to have strong magic AND a strong body. He flung a heavy wind out, blowing away the smoke and leaving everything out in the open. Before he could even move, he heard a clatter behind him and a lithe figure leaped over him. He watched Enjolras, in her powder blue jacket and long curls, grab an attacker by the face. She wrenched him away from the young lady he had been encroaching upon, but did not throw him down. Everything seemed to stop as flames built up between her palm and his face. The man started screaming, clawing at her hand. Yet she did not let go until something under her hand popped. Sick and greasy, the way only cartilage would pop in a stew.

Enjolras dropped the man, still screaming, now clutching his face, to the ground. She looked to her audience, hand still flaming. Civilian, attacker, and guard alike just stared at for her. And to her credit, Enjolras just gave the guard an incredulous look. ”WHAT are you WAITING for?”

Everyone jumped into action. “TAKE ONE ALIVE!” Grantaire shouted, unsheathing his blade and joining the fray. I seemed as if his shout unleashed a deluge. Everyone was shouting them. The guards were shouting for the honour of the crowd, the poor inn patrons shouting for assistance or mercy. But it was the shouts of the attackers that Grantaire was listening for. He fought, slashing, stabbing, and even knocking one man down with the hilt of his sword. Grantaire would not let these bastards ruin a business, injure people, and cause chaos in his own country, much less his own city.

And the he heard it, one of them somewhere, shouting. _“This will all belong to Somon! Surrender!”_

There was no way it had ever been anyone other than the Westerners. Grantaire increased his efforts, but tried to tread a very careful line between incapacitating these attackers and killing them. One alive. They needed at least one alive. But Grantaire was already doubting that. He had killed at least two, the man Enjolras burned was surely dead, and with every slice and slash, the guards were beating them down. Some of the city’s residents had taken up chair legs as weapons even, and Grantaire saw the inn’s owner smashing a frying pan into an attacker’s head.

With the fall of that man, it seemed to end. Things calmed slowly as everyone seemed to realize that no one else was fighting. There were wounds, bruises, damaged property. A guard was face down on the ground, disturbingly still. Grantaire’s eyes sought out Enjolras, who was bleeding from a rough gash on her face but crouching near a young boy who had been caught in the fray and was sobbing. Enjolras took him into her arms, petted his hair. She patted his head a couple times before a woman came nearly crawling over and took him, thanking Enjolras profusely. “It is my pleasure and duty, lady,” she said, before standing up. Grantaire stood as well, and she called to him. “You live then?”

“As do you,” he said. Even battle-weary and bleeding - ESPECIALLY battle-weary and bleeding - Enjolras struck quite a figure. Many of the city's people, including those who had gathered in the street, were watching her in awe and wonder. Grantaire could count himself among them. “Let us see if any have survived. 

They made their rounds, checking the pulse of anyone unconscious. And old man who had just been eating lunch was lost, as well as the guard who he had worried for. Grantaire’s heart sunk low, low, low, deep into his stomach. He had failed these two people, their families. They had loved ones who would never see them again, because he hadn’t moved faster. Of course it was his fault; he was the prince. He was in charge, so all failures reflected on him.

“Tell me one of our attackers lives as well,” he said, trying to keep the thickness from his voice. ”If one lives…”

But as they went one, checking for life and calming people, something else became clear. Not a singly attacker had survived. Nothing seemed to tie them together - not age, not gender, neither skin color no clothing. Grantaire checked each body himself, then sent two guards out to search the area. 

In this destroyed room, there were no answers to be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah was this one a bit rushed? Maybe. Thanks for reading!


	5. Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know, this is feeling a little different than I planned for, but I'm liking it more and more as it goes on.

“AURORE!” Queen Yseult shrieked the moment they were brought into the courtroom. She picked herself up and ran, skirts in hand, to her daughter. Her expression was stricken. “Look at your FACE, you poor DEAR! Did they hurt you?”

A message had been sent ahead about the attack, with no one leaving the scene until more guards arrived to pat down the bodies and search for notes, anything to help. One was found with the Western coin in his pocket, and while that was not necessarily proof, when teamed with what Grantaire had heard one of them shout, it was all he needed to believe the Western countries were behind this. It made him insanely nervous. That meant one thing and one thing only - they were already in the country. And if more were in, more could get in. He had already given Bahorel the order to increase the amount of guards in the city, and for them to report anything that looked suspicious.

The trip back had been rushed, Grantaire worrying over Enjolras’ cut and Enjolras telling him not to bother. It would not leave a scar if they got to the healers in time. Grantaire knew he was worried over nothing.

But Queen Yseult was reacting as if the invaders were at their very door. She gripped Enjolras’ shoulder roughly, looking her over for any further injury. “Darling, what happened? Tell me you were safer than it seems!”

“Mother,” Enjolras said calmly. “I was in the battle as you can so clearly tell. But I am fine and must see a healer if you’ll release me.”

He saw the way her mother’s knuckles whitened. “In fact, Enjolras was the one who truly won the battle for us,” he bragged. “She surprised them and let us get the upper hand. It was astonishing and very impressive.”

Enjolras gave him a small smile in thanks, even as her mother wavered on the spot. Grantaire’s own mother raised a hand to his hair. “Then do I have her to thank that you returned home to me unscathed?”

“I wouldn’t say unscathed,” Grantaire said, watching King Daxton try to pry Queen Yseult’s fingers from their daughter. “I took a rough tumble into a table and put my hand into some very hot stew.” He hadn’t even noticed until they were leaving the scene.

Queen Pinar shook her head. “Let me see, my darling.”

He raised his hand and let Mother look it over. It was tingling and red, blistered along the knuckles. She murmured a comfort and wrapped her hands around the burn. It only hurt for a moment, until cold water leaked from her palms, circling his hand and absorbing some of the heat. “We’ll get you to a healer and fix you up properly, but this should help for now. Poor dear.

“I heard that one our guards was lost today, and a patron of the inn,” she said as she replenished the water with a burst of cold. Grantaire sighed. His mother kissed his forehead - which he had to bend down for her to reach. “Try not to take it to heart, darling. You must be able to pull away and not internalize things.”

“I’ll try, mother,” he said.

She smiled and pulled away, taking the soothing water with her. “Let me go alert the healers that the two of you will be coming.”

“Nonsense, let me just come with you. I’d like to see the injured guards anyways.” Grantaire was still hurting from the death of one, but the others were still his friends. “Enjolras, are you coming?”

Queen Yseult shook her head and took Enjolras’ hand. “I will bring her down myself. I want to hear the healers for myself.”

Before Grantaire could offer to wait with them, his mother was ushering him off. He could barely catch King Daxton saying something about sending out a message to send more guard from his home before the thick wooden door closed behind him. He walked his mother, lost in thought. His mind was torn, ripped between the attack and Enjolras. She had been so quiet for those last couple moments; it wasn’t like her. At least, it wasn’t like what he knew of her.

He must have sighed, because his mother squeezed his (non-burned) hand. “What are you thinking of, my pet?”

Grantaire watched her with his deep-set eyes. “I just...worry about Enjolras, and her mother...something about their relationship seems strained.”

“This is a tough time for them, dear - tensions are high when a child leaves home, and with this attack, the looming war, the new country...nearly every relationship is strained. I am pleased to see that you worry for her already, but I believe that things will calm soon.” She smiled and let her head on his shoulder, crown pressing against him. “And, even if you are truly worried, her parents plan on living in their own castle in the South after the festival, so we have a presence everywhere. You know that.”

“I know, I know. It just makes me feel odd.” He would have shrugged were she not leaning on him. 

“The relationship between a mother and daughter is very different from either other relationship in the world. You cannot truly understand it just looking in from the outside.” She sighed, and Grantaire wondered if she was thinking of his long-dead grandmother. The woman had been wild, uncontrollable, and as a little boy Grantaire has idolized her. He still did - there was a portrait of her on horseback in his sitting room. “They will be apart soon, and you will see that more likely than not, Enjolras will miss her - strained relationship or otherwise.”

Now that, Grantaire didn’t know about.

His wound was quickly healed without a hint of the burn left by their expert healer. Grantaire made a point of going around to visit the three injured guards. Each of them had been healed as well, but two were put on bed rest at the far end of the ward and the other sat between them, talking over the fight and looking somber. For a good hour, Grantaire sat with them, discussing the guard who had been killed. Ambert was his name. He was young, with a husband and two children at home. Grantaire’s heart ached at that. He made the decision that he would deliver their first month’s compensation personally, to talk to the family and explain what an honour it was that the man had served him and been counted among his friends. 

It would not be the first time he had something of the same. Some families were grateful for his presence, some angered by it. A few times, eldest children or spouses had screamed at him that honour meant nothing when their loved one was dead. He always forgave them, whether they backtracked immediately upon seeming to recall he was the prince, or holding their ground and telling him to arrest them where they stood. Grantaire wanted to do everything he could to make it easier on them, but it was never enough. Nothing took away the sting of a death.

He also had plans to find the family of the old man, if he had any. Once they had a proper indication of his identity, Grantaire would go to them as well. It was tiring, this obligation to his people, but if he did nothing it would be a blade in his belly from his own hand. Sometimes he wished that he did not care. In the long, lonely nights, he prayed for apathy and wished for numbness. But it never came.

Still, being with the guards in the healer’s wing boosted his spirits a little bit, boosted his morale. Conversation faded from their dead comrade. Grantaire asked about their own families, happy to listen to the woes of a nosy father-in-law, a two-year-old who would only say curse words, and a sister who believed that her magic was much better than it was. This sort of thing was calming to him, being around people, hearing their life stories. Of course, that meant that they eventually started asking Grantaire about his own marriage, nudging him and teasing. It made him happy that they saw him as someone they could comfortably tease, and not just their prince.

He gave up enough to make them happy, not wanting to spread misinformation or embarrass Enjolras. Grantaire mentioned that he had shown her the pink beach, told them of the sword fight they had surely already heard of. He mentioned that she was a much earlier riser than himself, which got a laugh from the oldest guard - Grantaire’s desire to sleep the day away was well-known amongst those that had seen him grow up. And he made sure that they knew he was happy in the marriage. Let them make of that what they would.

Eventually he pulled away from them, wanting to see if anything else had been found out from the bodies of the people that had attacked. He bid farewell to the guards and made for the door of the hospital ward. One of the healer apprentices stopped him with a low curtsy. “Your Highness?”

“How may I help you?” he asked.

“We heard that Princess...uhm, your wife, we heard tell that she was injured today as well. Yet we have not seen her come by for any healing.”

“Oh.” That struck Grantaire. “Yes, she was injured. Thank you for letting me know; when I find the Prince she will be along shortly.”

The apprentice curtsied again. Hurrying along, Grantaire wondered where she had gone. Perhaps just to clean up first? That gash needed attention if she did not want it to scar. He moved up to their rooms, but she was not there and the guards on duty had not seen her. Neither was she in the library. The sparring ring was deserted, and her horse still in the stable. 

Grantaire wandered past her parents suite, but the guards there not report seeing her. He was stumped, and thought that, just maybe, he had missed Enjolras on her way to healer. So he started to meander up that way. It would be dinner soon enough and he would certainly see her there. But when he sat down, she was not there. And all through dinner, she was not there. He leaned around his mother and asked Queen Yseult, but neither she nor her husband had seen her for hours.

That struck Grantaire as very odd. After all of her worry, Queen Yseult was very nonchalant about the fact that no one had seen Enjolras in hours. Grantaire excused himself from dinner early and decided to just wander the castle. He went to the front foyer, which was the last place he had seen Enjolras. Not that, nearly four hours later, he expected her to still be there, but it was a good a starting point as any. From there he cased the first floor - the courtroom, the council room, the ballroom - and found nothing. 

But just as he was moving towards the stairs, small footsteps from the dining room drew his attention. A small cotton cloud of a girl came out, as quickly as she could while still seeming dignified. “Lady Cosette?”

“Prince...Prince Hercule,” she said, voice soft in a whisper. “Are you searching for Enjolras?”

“Yes, I - “

“You may want to check my rooms.” She gave him a rather serious look, then raised her finger to her mouth. “I have to return to dinner. Please, don’t tell her I told you.”

“I won’t.” The lady told him where to find her rooms, and Grantaire left her. She was up on the third floor, and he didn’t need to rush since he knew that, in Lady Cosette’s rooms, Enjolras was fine. Maybe. But why was she there? And why wouldn’t she want Cosette to tell him?

He took the stair slowly, wondering if he had been panicking for nothing. Grantaire had learned a long time ago to trust his instincts, though, and his instincts said nothing good about this entire situation.

Lady Cosette’s rooms were at the very far end of the hallway, and with near everyone at dinner it was deserted. Not even a guard on the floor. He moved to the end of the hallway and gently knocked on the door. “Enjolras? Are you in there? It’s Grantaire.”

There was a long enough pause that he knocked again. Then he heard rustling. “I’m here. Go away.”

“What’s wrong?” Her voice sounded rough and Grantaire didn’t like her being alone. 

“Nothing,” Enjolras snapped. “Now go away.”

But what she didn’t seem to remember was that, as a prince, he had a skeleton key. Grantaire hated to use it, though. “Enjolras, you’ve been essentially missing all day. Did you ever go see the healer?”

“No.”

Grantaire sighed. “You’ll scar.”

From the other side of the room, he swore he heard Enjolras whisper, “Good.”

“Won’t you come talk to me?” He touched the door. “I’m worried about you.”

Slowly, so slowly that he wasn’t sure if it was truly happening, Enjolras opened the door. At the sight of only half of her face peeking out from behind the heavy slab of wood, Grantaire felt sick. The cut was still there, but was joined with a miraculous bruise spread over it, and what looked like a scrape on her temple.

“...what happened?”

“From the battle,” she said, pulling the door all the way open. There was a mark on her chin as well, what looked like a ring. “Marks that didn’t have time to form before, I think. I know I should have gone to the healer but things got in the way and the next thing I knew, I was dozing in Cosette’s salon.”

Grantaire’s green eyes were serious and dark, heavy brows knitted together. “Those weren’t there before.”

“Yes they were. I’ll see you in our rooms later, Grantaire - Cosette and I have plans tonight.”

Then the door was shut in his face, the bolt locked. Even as he fingered the key in his pocket, Grantaire knew that he should just allow Enjolras her privacy.

He did not see her again that night.

**~~~**

During a meeting that following afternoon, Enjolras’ face was healed, but a shiny scar took up her cheek. Since is was not a full meeting, with many empty chairs, Enjolras had chosen to sit near Grantaire. That meant nearly nothing on its own, but since the other available seats were near Queen Yseult, Grantaire felt heavy about the whole thing.

As the meeting progressed, talking mostly of the attack, he noticed that Enjolras was not taking notes as usual, or really speaking up. Her right hand was at her side, balled into a fist. Grantaire watched her clench that fist and knew that even those short nails of hers had to be digging into the heels of her palm. He dropped his left hand and, hidden by the table, brushed his knuckles against Enjolras’.

She looked over to him, but did not move her hand. Grantaire specifically did not meet her gaze. He kept his eye on those who were speaking as he slowly ran their knuckles together. Enjolras did not stop him or pull away, so he did not cease his movements. As Combeferre unrolled a large map along one wall of the room, Grantaire kept his eyes on him. But he also worked his large fingers between Enjolras’ delicate ones. Bit by bit, he unfurled her pinky, gently massaging it before moving onto the next one. He didn’t stop until her hand was relaxed, loose, then dropped it, letting his own hand fall to his side. Maybe it was an odd thing to do but he could sense how tense she was and wanted to do something. Grantaire might have a darkness to him that he kept locked up tight and a gritty view of the world, but he also could not stand it when his friends were unhappy. Enjolras was his friend, and surely she was not happy. But still. Perhaps he shouldn’t have done it.

Then, for a brief moment, she slipped her hand back into his. Enjolras held his hand for a count of three, squeezed, then let go. And Grantaire knew that he had done something right.

“There are rumors that we are cancelling the festival,” said someone across the table said, and Grantaire found that he was paying attention again.

“Why? Because of one attack? That’s probably what these invaders want, to lower our visibility and make the people doubt us as suitable rulers.” Grantaire played with his quill as he spoke, thinking about the softness of the feathers compared to the softness of Enjolras’ hand. 

Enjolras nodded. “That is exactly what they want. I have heard no talk from any officials of cancelling the festival.”

“Well of course we wouldn’t,” King Daxton said. Next to him, Grantaire’s mother nodded. “Some do fear a repeat attack, but if we up our forces I don’t think we will have a problem. Yes, a lot fo unfamiliar faces will be about - people from all over both countries will be about, but I believe that if everyone keeps an eye out for suspicious behaviour then it will be avoidable.”

Bahorel waved his hand nonchalantly in the air. “I’ll put together a citizen’s brigade. And perhaps a couple booths people can report issues to, spattered throughout the festival? Usually we have one, but maybe a couple more would put a few minds at ease.”

“Good idea,” Grantaire said. “You and I can make it our project.”

“Perfect, your highness.”

It was well agreed upon that they should keep going and pushing on. Act as if the attack had not startled them at all.

At the end of the meeting, Grantaire tried to catch Enjolras. But this time his mother was too quick for him, and stole her out from right underneath his nose. What could they be up to? He didn’t have much time to think on it, because Bahorel was soon at his side. They agreed to go into town for dinner, to their favourite pub, and discuss business there. Bahorel nodded and headed off to tell the guards where he would be, and Grantaire left just to rest a little before going into town.

He heard Queen Yseult calling for him as he left, but kept walking. Grantaire was becoming less and less fond of that woman as days went by.

**~~~**

“That all sounds good to me,” Bahorel said almost three hours later as they sat at their favourite table. “I think we’ve done enough for the night, don’t you?”

Grantaire had to agree.They had written up the call to arms for a citizen’s brigade during the festival (and already gotten two names from the men at the table next to them), decided which guards would man the booths at the festival, and decided how many men to put on each street, as well as brainstorming which nobiles and their children would be the happiest to wander among the people, talk to them, calm them. Honestly, it worked to deal with public unrest much better than royal decrees and such half of the time. Let the people see that the ruling class is like them and willing to speak with them, and they will support whoever is in charge.

It was a charming thing that Grantaire was surprised to see work. It all seemed rather flowery for him, but if it would calm the people, he would do anything.

“I must agree.” Grantaire signaled for two more tankards. “This is all nasty business. It is nice to be out of the castle for a little while. I mean, I know I was just out yesterday, but the time since then has felt more like a week.”

“Things are indeed different with the castle so full. And your bed full as well. How has life been now that you are married?” Bahorel was teasing him but Grantaire didn’t mind. “What is it that pretentious men call their wives? The old ball and chain?”

Well, that did make him laugh. “I don’t think I would or could call Enjolras that. We share a bed but that’s about all. There’s Something about her, my friend, that keeps her at a distance from me. We know very little about each other and she has no interest in sharing with me. Part of thinks she’s AFRAID of me.”

“Of you? Has she not figured out that you’re nothing but a large pillow yet?” Bahorel smiled. “I’m sure that she will come around, your highness.”

“Please, none of THAT, not right now.” He didn’t want to be a prince for just a couple moments. He wanted to be any other man discussing relationships with his friend. There were only empty table around them, so Grantaire leaned forward a little. “If I may be honest...I believe that there is something going on with Enjolras. I do not know what, but. Something.”

Yes, he was worried, but didn’t want to be spreading rumors.

“She does seem odd. Her name, for one, and how she wants to be called Prince. Some of the staff are taking some getting used to it, especially with the way her mother fights it.” They accepted their new tankards from the barmaid. Bahorel sipped at his before continuing. “I figure, whatever makes her happy.”

He thought about Enjolras squeezing his hand that day, and how she seemed happiest while making decisions or competing. And he thought about those bruises on her face, the way she hid when something was bothering her.”Me as well.”

“You know, if we’re speaking honestly...I like her. I think she’s already proving herself a capable leader. I just hope that she makes YOU happy, Grantaire,” Bahorel said as he knocked their tankards together. “The country needs a powerful ruling family, but you need a partner, my friend. I hope that Enjolras is good to you.”

He smiled, wondering why the loneliness ever crept in at night when he had such amazing friends as this at his back.

But night time comes for everyone, and when Grantaire found himself alone in bed again that night, doubts crept in. About his ability to rule, to protect people, to make a lasting relationship of any sort with Enjolras. He couldn’t even finish a speech - one he had to give in two days time. It was started, and he knew what he wanted to say, but something was stopping him from just putting ink to parchment and finishing it. Why? Why couldn’t he just WRITE the damned thing?

He huffed and rolled over in bed, facing away from the door. Maybe if he got up and tried to write it now, the worry would push him to success. But he knew from experience that it wouldn’t, and if he tried he would just be left feeling even worse. With another huff, he got out of bed and pulled the tassel for a servant. Maybe something to snack on and something to drink would take his mind off of these nonsense for a little bit.

When the door opened, however, it was no maid. Enjolras strolled in, looking tired. She stopped when she saw Grantaire standing there in his nightclothes, just watching her. “I expected you’d be asleep by now.”

“Were you waiting for me to be asleep?” he asked, and even he could hear a twinge of the pathetic in his voice. 

“No,” she said. “It’s just late is all.” Enjolras sat on the edge of the bed and peeled one of her boots off. She tossed the boot in the general direction of her wardrobe; the other soon joined it. With a sigh,she bent down to massage one of her feet. “Why _are_ you still up, then?”

“I’ve been thinking on my speech,” was all he offered. “Where have you been?”

“Your mother wished to show me the art gallery,” she said. “Then I was with Cosette.”

“The two of you seem close.” Which Grantaire was glad for. “What did you do?”

She stood and pulled her hair over her shoulder, then started to braid it. That was how she usually slept, after all. “The seamstresses came in to make sure my measurements were correct. I have yet to see even a design for my outfit - is this normal?”

“The seamstresses here are very proud, private people. The like to have grand unveilings. But the festival starts day after tomorrow, so we’ll surely see our outfits before lunch, in case they need to alter anything.” Grantaire chuckled. “Mother says that she did not see her wedding dress done until the last moment before she put it on. They has tried it on her only in parts. Now they take measurements and create a dummy from clay. With the right magic it takes only a moment. But the clothes? Still by hand only.”

“Ah. Well, I am eager to see what they come up with.” Enjolras, as per usual, slipped behind a silk screen to change. Despite the heat, she emerged where thick, covering night clothes. “Will you be going to bed?”

“I’m waiting up for a midnight snack,” he said. “Would you join me?”

“Perhaps I will.” Enjolras sat on the bed and, after a moment, Grantaire joined her. He looked at her face, that scar. It was not thick, but it was prominent. In time, it would fade, but she would be stuck with it for years and years to come. She caught him looking and watched him, blue eyes careful. Very gently, he reached out and touched the scar. She stiffened, but did not move. Still, he pulled away, not wanting to frighten her.

“Forgive me. Does it hurt?”

She folded her feet under her. “No; it’s only a little tight. You were healed successfully?” 

Grantaire held out both of his hands for Enjolras to look at. “Yes, I was. You know, things could have been a lot worse if you didn’t move so quickly. That bit with that fellow’s face - brutal, but I have to admit. It was extremely interesting to see.”

“You took down two of them on your own,” she added. “Interesting in its own way.”

He smiled. A knock at the door with the arrival of the servant. They asked for some fruit to be sent up, and then Enjolras asked about how Grantaire had been trained. With the night going like this, he was sort of happy that he hadn’t been able to sleep after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended sort of abruptly, but if I kept going it possibly would have been TOO long. Ah well! Thanks for reading!


	6. Bond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is one of the ones I had in my head and sort of wrote this story around. I hope you enjoy it~

Grantaire was correct about the seamstresses wanting to put them in their outfits for the first day of the festival. It was a raining day before a week of sunshine as promised by the weather mages who had scryed into the future for a suitable time to have a week spent mainly outside. So Grantaire was pleased to be inside on that nasty day, the thunder and lightning making inside seem even cosier than it normally was. He was down in the main salon with his extended family - that would be Enjolras’ parents and Lady Cosette - while waiting for the seamstresses to bring in their clothing.

Queen Yseult was telling Lady Cosette and Queen Pinar, in great detail, about the dress she had requested for herself. Grantaire stood with Enjolras and King Daxton, listening to the queen go on about tulle and satin. He wondered if she was becoming irritating because he did not like her, or if she was simply an irritating person.

“Your father must be loathe to miss this,” the king said. “A proud day for a father, his son addressing the public for the first time after his wedding. I’m certainly proud of Enjolras.”

Enjolras ducked his head, but Grantaire caught that smile. At least ONE of her parents was a good person. “I do wish he was here,” Grantaire admitted. “But I understand the importance of what he does. He will be with us soon enough, and will be eager to see what we have done in his time away.”

“What is your father like?” Enjolras asked, sipping at some Southern fruit juice that was already becoming increasingly popular in the North.

“Good-natured,” he said easily. “He looks like me, but older and fatter, with much more wisdom in his eyes. He likes to fish. He likes to dance. And he is the kindest man I have ever met. He will be happy over this. And he will love you, Enjolras, I guarantee it. Just don’t let him challenge you to a boxing match, because he will win.”

Enjolras laughed a little at that. ”I might have to take your word for it.”

There was a knock, and the seamstresses came in with large forms covered in sheets. Three per form, the seamtresses set them down in the middle of the room before settling into curtsies and bows. Queen Pinar stepped forward and took the hand of the senior seamstress. “I cannot wait to see what you’ve created for us.”

“It is our honour to dress you all for such an occasion.”

“And thank you for doing it so soon after a wedding,” Grantaire added, to a chorus of chuckles. His suit and Enjolras’ dress had enough fabric between them to house a family for a year. 

The first form brought out was for Lady Cosette, as the lowest ranking member of the group. A beautiful dress, blue, puffy as all of her dresses. She took great pride in looking like a walking dessert, which Grantaire found charming. She cooed over the dress and thanked the woman who had designed it a hundred times over.

It was much same with the king’s outfit, which was chaste and dashing, as will as Queen Pinar’s sleek gown and Queen Yseult’s traditional dress. Normally, Grantaire’s closest confidante would be receiving a new outfit as well, but since that was Bahorel he would be wearing his dress uniform. 

The real excitement for the day, however, was seeing what had been designed for Grantaire and Enjolras; it was them that everyone would be looking at. They had picked out the fabrics, been measured, and that was the last either of them had been involved. Grantaire stepped forward first and winked at the senior seamstress. She gave him a stony faced look. Ah well! Grantaire knew that she loved him.

“For you, my prince,” she said, stepping to the side and grabbing the sheet covering the penultimate form. “We have created a form-fitting ensemble that will display your power and compliment your colouring. Your choices in fabric were shockingly impeccable.”

For anyone else, that may have been pushing it, but this woman had been in the castle and working with the queen so long that she was family. Grantaire remembered being a little boy and having her stop what she was doing to read him a story. So he bowed his head and gave her a laugh. “I am glad that I could choose something appropriate.”

When she took the sheet off, even Grantaire was dumbstruck. Trousers done in alternating stripes of two greens so close that only when he moved his head could he tell they different all. A wrap around doublet in a dark green, studded with emeralds near the neck and bordered with gold embroidery. The sleeves were puff and slash near the shoulder, with white peeking out between the panels, and tight at the wrist. A long cloak trimmed in fur trailed down the back and pooled at the feet of black knee-high boots, crushed velvet on one side and white silk on the other. 

“This is astonishing,” he said. “I don’t think that I am handsome enough to do these justice.”

Even as his mother told them that of course he was, Grantaire stepped forward to touch the doublet, the white blouse beneath it, the trousers. “You all have truly outdone yourselves.”

There was a chorus of thanks from the seamstresses, and even the senior among them was smiling. She was smiling even more after Grantaire bowed and kissed her hand.

“I’m too old for all of this flirting, your highness,” she lightly chastised. But she was pleased. 

She turned her gaze to Enjolras, who had been standing by quietly during all of this. Enjolras nodded and gestured to her, but there was a sour look on her face as she did so. She had been eyeing up the forms since they were brought in, hardly paying attention to any of the clothes that had already been revealed.

“This last one is rather large,” she said, as the seamstress took a hold of the sheet.

Honestly, Grantaire couldn’t tell if he realized what was happening before it happened, or AS it happened. But either way, as the sheet flew through the air before fluttering to hang to the ground, one end still clasped in the seamstress’ hand, Enjolras’ outfit was revealed.

The first thing to notice was the colour - four shades of red in silk, in chiffon, in brocade, and in tulle. It looked nearly like a fire, ready to blaze down anything in its path. The sleeves were tight and sever around the shoulders, the waist cinched. The collar was low, too low, and white lace peeked from the top. There was a capelet in red, with white fur, to match Grantaire’s. It was beautifully crafted and obviously extravagant.

The only problem was that it was a dress.

Enjolras’ outfit was a dress with sleeves that flared at the elbow, décolletage that went nearly absurdly low, and a skirt that was so flared and layered that no one would be able to get in arms reach of her body.

The room went silent, and all eyes were on Enjolras. She turned, almost in slow motion, to face her mother. Her arms folded over her chest and her eyes were very sharp. “Mother.”

“Yes, darling?” she asked, trying to pull off an innocence that she just didn’t have.

“Why?”

Queen Yseult approached Enjolras to touch her elbow; Enjolras jumped back so quickly that it was nearly athletic. “Darling, please. It’s a beautiful dress, and they worked so hard on it. Don’t you want to be pretty on this big day?”

“You know that I don’t wear dresses.” Enjolras’ voice was deep, dangerous. Even Grantaire could tell that. The seamstresses shifted, uncomfortable with not only witnessing this fight but possibly having something to do with it. Enjolras stalked over to the dress, walked around it once in long, powerful strides. “You will not put me in this.”

“But don’t you remember your wedding dress, how glorious you - “

“No!”

The shout was hard, sharp. It sounded the way a slap felt. Enjolras went up to the dress and easily lifted it from the base wire form. She held it up and looked around the seamstresses. She saw the youngest, the smallest - the one closest to her side. “How much do you make in a week, miss?” she asked gently.

The young seamstress glances nervously at Queen Pinar. “E-enough to be comfortable, your highness. We are paid very well.”

“Well enough to ever afford a dress like this?” Enjolras enquired.

“If...if I’m honest, your highness...no. But there is no need for me to ever own something so extravagant.” She looked supremely uncomfortable.

“Do you think the dress beautiful?”

“Y-yes, Prince Enjolras…” she whispered, looking nearly ready to faint.

Still, Enjolras held out the dress. The young woman looked around, then accepted it into her arms. Enjolras smiled, and Grantaire could see the seamstress calm, just a bit. “Then take it. Wear it sell it, whatever you will - this is yours now.”

That particular seamstress was not the only one watching her with awe. “I could never sell a gift from you, your highness...but I do not think I would ever have a place to wear something so lovely.”

“Then you will come to the ball at the end of the week as my guest. Wear it then.”

“Alright, alright,” came Queen Yseult’s voice, icy. “That is enough, Aurore. You have made your point, brava. Now try the damned thing on.”

“But Mother,” Enjolras said, turned to watch her with a steely gaze. “This belongs to someone else now. I would never wear another person’s clothing.”

Grantaire, while a little bit terrified, had to stifle a chuckle. That was funny. Queen Yseult clearly didn’t think so. “Aurore, may I talk to you in the other room?”

“No you may not.” And then she turned, completely ignoring her mother to speak with the seamstress.

“...well!” Grantaire announced in the uncomfortable quiet. “Why don’t we all - “

“I will need all of the seamstresses to leave,” Queen Yseult said. Grantaire wish more than anything that this was before the wedding, so he could tell her to not give orders in HIS castle. Unfortunately, he settled for gritting his teeth. “And Cosette, you as well.”

“But, your majesty - “

“I may not be in my homeland but I am still your Queen and you will do as I say.”

With a nervous look at Enjolras, Cosette curtsied and left, followed by the maids. Once the door was shut behind them, Queen Yseult crossed the room and bolted the door locked. “There. We are here to have a private conversation.”

“Mother, I am not having this conversation right now. I need to speak with the seamstresses you so rudely dismissed about my outfit for the morning.” Enjolras still had her arms crossed, one hip cocked. Grantaire moved closer to her, a silent present. She let her eyes flick to him for a moment, but turned right back to watch her mother. 

“They made you an outfit, under my express direction - “

“Direction that was not yours to give,” Enjolras interrupted. Grantaire was looking to her father, who was standing back, in the shadows. He wondered what was going on in that man’s head. Grantaire’s own mother seemed pained, like she wanted to help. Such a thing was always in her nature. “I want you to leave me to make my own decisions. I am the future ruler of a new country, mother, and you cannot treat me as a child.”

“I will stop treating you like a child when you stop behaving as if you are still eight, tossing your dolls into the river and giving necklaces to little beggar girls! You have always tried to be an ugly, monstrous little brat.” Queen Yseult was trying to seem in control, but her face was red and her mouth was tight. 

“That’s strange. Of everyone in this room, you seem to be the most childish. Or is it suddenly queenly to throw a tantrum when you don’t get your way?”

A loud slap echoed through the room. Grantaire swore that he did not see the Queen cross the room, but there she was, and Enjolras’ head was thrown to the side with a rough, red handprint forming on her scarred cheek. And then quick as the first, another slap on the other cheek. It was not unusual for children, even royals, to be punished physically.

But as Enjolras had said, she was no longer a child.

Grantaire stepped forward. “Madame,” he said, hearing the own anger in his voice. “This is uncalled for. I am going to ask you remove yourself to your rooms until you can control yourself.”

“It’s not her she wants to control,” Enjolras said. She turned on her heel. Hiding in her hair, and walked to the door. She fumbled with the lock for a moment, but once it was open, she was gone.

The others in the room remained silent. Grantaire looked past Queen Yseult, to where his own mother had her hand pressed to her mouth. Next to her, King Daxton was ashen. He was shifting, clearly undecided where to throw his loyalty.

Grantaire did not have that problem. He turned as well and left the room.

**~~~**

Enjolras was not hard to find. In fact, she was in the first room Grantaire looked in - the one right next door, one of those many rooms that were used for just whatever needs may arise. The door was not locked as he might have guessed, but Enjolras was in there, no candles lit, the only light peeking out from behind the thick drapes. Grantaire hovered in the doorway, since Enjolras gave no sign of knowing that he was there. But he had to help, to talk to her.

He took a step in, just enough to close the door behind him. “Enjolras?”

Then she sniffled, and Grantaire’s heart dropped into his stomach. He moved closer, not wanting to scare her but feeling so unhelpful from across the room. “Enjolras, it’s alright.”

She turned and made to run past him, but he grabbed her arm. It felt so small in his own large, meaty hand. So much for not wanting to scare her, but he was acting on instinct. 

Enjolras whipped around and slapped an open hand against his chest. And Grantaire was ready to let go, motion halfway completed. But Enjolras’ hand did not fall. Instead, she bunched together the fabric of his jacket in a tight fist. Grantaire wasn’t sure of what to do, so he did nothing. She was completely in control. 

Her boots made a small clicking sound on a stone floor as Enjolras took one step, then two, until she could rest her forehead on his chest. It barely touched Grantaire’s collarbone. When it seemed that she wasn’t going to run or attack him or anything, Grantaire gently cupped the back of her head with his hand.

“I was just embarrassed,” she whispered.

Grantaire sighed, and let go of her wrist just to take her hand. She did not fight him on that either. “Over the slap or the dress?”

“Both. She...she’s mortifying.” Enjolras’ hands crept up to rest on either side of Grantaire’s neck, resting in the junction where neck became shoulder. He did not know what to do, but if she was seeking out comfort, who was he to deny her? He stroked those golden curls, feeling how tense she was against him. He took his other arm and wrapped it securely around her waist.

He lowered his head to murmur against her hair. Could she feel his heart pounding? “I am proud of you.”

Her grip on him tightened. Enjolras heaved a deep sigh. “‘Be ugly.’ That’s what she said when I came home with the injury to my face. ‘Be ugly for all I care.’ This is not new. You needn’t…”

“I needn’t what?”

“Coddle me.” 

That was what she said, but the way Enjolras rested against Grantaire made him think that, just for a moment, that was exactly what he needed to do.

“If it helps...you’re not ugly,” he offered.

“I don’t care about that. It’s not what she _says_ , it’s what she _means_.” Enjolras took another deep breath. “Nevermind. I...just, please. Forgive me my moment of weakness.”

She pulled away, and Grantaire’s ams felt very empty. Every time he was allowed a little of her, a seed seemed to be planted deeper and deeper within him. “Any time,” he said. “This is part of our relationship, whatever it may be.”

Enjolras only tossed her hair from her face. “Whatever it may be? Doable.” She wiped at her face a little, then looked towards the door. “I think I’ll retire to our rooms and touch up my speech.

“Do you want to come with me?”

Grantaire jumped at the chance. He let her lead the way to the door. They walked quietly up the stairs. Not for the first time, Grantaire wondered why being royal meant that he had to walk up so many stairs just to get to his own private space. They took the main staircase and avoided running into anybody who would have stopped them on their way - including, thankfully, their parents. Even Grantaire’s mother would have too many questions for the moment.

When they turned the corner to their suite, however, the hallway was full. Every seamstress who had been in the salon during the unveiling was waiting for them - including the one who had been gifted that dress. As in a wave, each seamstress turned upon realizing that their princes were there. 

In sea of skirts flaring and tails flapping, each seamstress dropped into a low bow or curtsy. The senior seamstress was the only one to rise. “Thank you, Prince Enjolras,” she said. “What you did today was touching - you have made a young girl very, very happy. And we wish to apologize - we meant no offense.”

“None taken,” Enjolras said. “I know that you were only following my mother’s orders.”

“Yes, your highness.” She inclined her head. “We respect her as queen. But you will be the one remaining here. You are our prince of Aenorium Valoris and we will honour you as such. Do not worry - come tomorrow you will have a suit to match Prince Hercule’s in splendor and grandeur.”

Enjolras’ smile was true. She bent at the waist and held out her hand. When the senior seamstress put her palm in Enjolras’, it was rewarded with a brief kiss. Grantaire did not even mind that Enjolras had stolen his bit. Because she was happy. They all were. But mostly, Enjolras seemed in better spirits. And more and more, that was becoming very important to Grantaire. He watched Enjolras greet each seamstress, learn each name, ask about each family. Enjolras even repeated her invite to the ball for the youngest seamstress, then invited all of them for a private dinner in the private dining room shared by herself and Grantaire and begged any of them with any sort of complaint - any at all - to come to her with them. Grantaire hung back to watch her among the people, saw how they loved her. He did not fear for the future of his country, if someone like that was going to rule by his side.


	7. Festival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I've done a little doodle to accompany this fic, featuring the outfits these two are wearing to the festival (minus the capes, which I forgot), and it can be found [here on my tumblr](http://jehanjetaime.tumblr.com/post/157032266549/some-art-for-my-fantasy-royal-slow-burn)

That night, Grantaire tried to sleep. Honestly, he did. Enjolras slept soundly beside him in the dark of their bed chamber, but for Grantaire? There was no sleep to be found. It was worry that kept him awake - about his speech, about the invaders, about Enjolras. Everything weighed on him. Grantaire hated summoning servants so late, but had one come up with a bottle of wine.

He sipped at it in their private sitting room as he looked over his speech. Grantaire wanted to warn his people what may come, but wished he had more information. Yes, they had near proof that those attacks had been orchestrated by the Western Countries, more than enough to go by, but Grantaire would not fear-monger. In fact, that was a good term - he marked it down. This speech should have been done by now, but Grantaire still wasn’t happy with it. 

By the time the wine bottle was half-empty, he had given up on the speech. It would have to do as it was. Enjolras had to give one as well, so perhaps her speech would be so stunning that no one would pay much mind to his. Grantaire wandered out to the balcony, bottle in hand, feet bare on the stone. He wished more than anything for sleep. An easy sleep, deep and long that left him rested.

What he received was a string of lights on the other side of the side of the castle gates. Grantaire’s suite of rooms faced the front of the castle, leaving him a wide open view of anyone who was approaching.

But who was approaching?

It was too dark to see the banners flying - Grantaire could tell they were there, but that was it. There was the distant sound of hooves on the ground, and of wagon wheels. Where they expecting any visitors? Not that Grantaire knew of. His first thought, of course, was that this was some sort of invasion. But what invaders came to the front gate? There was no honor like that in battle, not in this area of the world.

He leaned forward as a rider broke off from the group and disappeared into the shadow between the firelight of the arriving party. A moment later he emerged into the firelight from the gate, and paused to speak with the guards. After what Grantaire assumed was a brief conversation, the gate started to rise. Distant yells met Grantaire’s ears, gaining volume and power with each guard that took them up. By the time it reached him, loud enough to be heard, he was already running out of his rooms and down the steps.

“The King has arrived! Ring the bells - the King of Aenorium Valoris is home!”

**~~~**

Grantaire’s father crushed him in a mighty bear hug the moment they met in the foyer. The king was wearing riding gear, filthy, and tired looking; Grantaire was in his night clothes, reeked of wine, and tired looking. They laughter, the same deep, rumbling laugh from each man, echoed through the foyer as everyone was rushed in, carrying trunks, carrying armor, carrying parcels.

“Hercule, my boy!” King Heitor roared despite the late hour. “Hardly my boy any more, though, are you? A married fellow! Let me correct myself! Hercule, my man!”

He extended his arms, pushing Grantaire back by the shoulders. “Let’s see...you look like shit, you’ve been drinking, and you’re clean-shaven...yes! Friends, this is a married man after all!”

A few of the lords coming in with him laughed, and Grantaire did as well. “What of you, father? You’ve lost weight, you’ve grown out your hair, and you smell like a horse’s behind! Can we blame that all on mother?”

“Only until she gets here!” More loud laughter, but everyone in earshot knew it as jest. King Heitor loved his wife more than anything in the world, and was very open about it. Grantaire had always been jealous of their relationship, if he was honest with himself. “Where is my darling wife?”

“Asleep, most likely, as is the rest of the castle! Or was!” Surely someone had run to wake her by now. 

A butler, who looked alert and bright-eyed as if he never needed sleep, stepped in and mentioned that refreshments were brought to the courtroom if the king or any of his travelling party was hungry. As always, Grantaire was surprised with the efficiency of his castle staff - his father’s arrival couldn’t have been announced more than ten minutes ago.

They wandered together into the courtroom, joking and talking. Grantaire greeted other members of the travelling party happily. This was the perfect way to boost his spirits.

The group was only in the room for about 20 minutes before there was a hustle and bustle outside. Queen Pinar burst into the room, her satin robe pulled over her night dress and her long dark hair, usually pulled up, cascaded loose down to her knees. She must have known that there would be a crowd in the courtroom, but clearly did not care. The queen laughed and threw her arms around King Heitor’s shoulders. “Darling, you’re home! I’ve missed you so much!”

They kissed in a way that still embarrassed Grantaire, even though he was an adult. No one ever liked seeing their parents kiss that way. Still, he was glad they were together and that they were so happy to be reunited.

King Daxton came in a moment later, and Grantaire’s father released his mother. He kept one arm around her waist as he shook King Daxton’s hand. They chatted amicably, as if they were old friends, which pleased Grantaire. It was important to him that his family members all got along. Of course, when Queen Yseult came in, looking awfully put together for the late hour, Grantaire kept his distance. But King Heitor, knowing nothing of what had been going on, greeted her warmly as well. 

Grantaire was over having a snack (because the food was there, why not partake?) when he heard the doors open once more. “Ah! There she is!”

At his father’s voice, Grantaire turned to see Enjolras. She was wearing his night robe, again, over her night clothes. Perhaps he would just give that robe to her - she was constantly wearing it. He could take that sheer one her mother had gifted to her. As if it would even tie around his thick middle. The idea made him laugh, and he choked it down.

Enjolras barely had time to do anything before the king was over by her. He wrapped his arms tightly around her and lifted her up to spin her in a circle. By the time he set her down, she was rumpled and dizzy looking, but she was smiling. It was impossible not to like his father. “A...an honour to meet you, your majesty…”

“None of that!” he said, slapping her roughly on the back in an overly-friendly manner. “Call me Heitor - we’re family now!”

That smile grew, and Grantaire matched it as their eyes met. His father was a jolly soul who could bring up the mood of any room. Enjolras bowed her head. “As you say, Heitor.”

“There we go!” 

As they all crowded around a table, even Queen Yseult seemed pleased. They settled down, every single one of them with a snack or drink and King Heitor at the head of the table. “Thank you all for waking up to greet me - we had thought of waiting until tomorrow to come in, but isn’t that festival planned for tomorrow? Wouldn’t want to muck up your plans!”

“You would never muck anything up,” Queen Pinar said. “The people will be as thrilled to see you as I am.”

“I fear not, my dear. I do not bring happy news.” Everything quieted down, and the king motioned for someone across the room. A page deposited a large wrapped parcel on the table in front of him. “As you of course, all know - I see that scar on you, dear, and am dreadfully sorry for it - we are in danger of invasion. From what we know, Huntana, Polonia, and Somon - the three largest city-states in the Western continent - are working together to to create a united republic out of all city-states surrounding them, bringing the Western Continent together as one country.” 

Grantaire listened as his father went through everything they had already been told. “You must have more than that in that package in front of you.” he said, “considering you messenger delivered that days ago.”

“I do indeed,” he said. King Heitor opened up the parcel to take out a leather-bound book. “This is the record of everything our mole in the Polonian government has been privy to over the six months. She has meticulously made note of everything she has overheard, and we have it all here.

“This, my dear ones, is our proof. It is as we said - these three city-states believe that if they can overpower us, not only will they gain access to our advantageous location, or rich natural resources, and our vast armies, as well as show not only their fellows on the Western continent to join them and unite, but prove to other countries that they are a force to be reckoned with. They plan on, within the next year, moving in inch by inc to take us by the coast line.”

King Daxton frowned and slid the tome to him. “Did we not already have knowledge of this?”

“Of course. But here is our proof. Between this and the attack, we know that they are starting. Before, if we made a move, we seemed bullies, taking advantage of a small, weak group of unorganized colonists. We believe it was part of their hope to push us into such an attack. But now, with our proof, with this one attack, we will not be seen as invading barbarians, but people protecting their home and their allies.” King heitor sighed and took a large bite of cheese.

“But the attack,” Enjolras said. “If they were trying to silently provoke us, why would they attack in such a manner, with proof of citizenship on them?”

“Our mole believes that such an attack was the plan of either rebels within the the system, or enemies of the Western city-states who want to see us destroy them pretending to work for the West,” King Heitor said. “Either way, it is something that we cannot let go ignored. Do you know if anything else has been found on the bodies?”

Queen Pinar shook her head. “No, we can find nothing to gives us a clue as to who they were.”

“Of course. Of course.” With a roll of his shoulders, the king looked towards the windows. The joy of the room had evaporated into mist, leaving everyone with an aura of gloom about them. “We will continue with things as planned. Keep our security upped. More guards, more mages. And all of us here at this table must be careful. Keep an eye on each other. Outside of the castle, be wary of going anywhere alone.”

They all agreed, and after a few more moments of discussion, King Heitor promising a full report tomorrow night, after the festival, went off to bed.Yes, this was important for the safety of their country and people, but the festival, in all honesty, was important to morale. And all of the money had already been spent, so it was time to build a camaraderie between two countries.

“Your father seems kind,” Enjolras said as she and Grantaire walked up to their bedroom. “And very affectionate.”

“He has an affinity for small things, I’m afraid,” Grantaire chuckled.

Enjolras smiled. “You have his laugh, you know.”

Grantaire couldn’t imagine a better compliment.

**~~~**

That morning, standing in their sitting room, Grantaire could hardly believe his eyes. “Those seamstresses must have been up all night,” he murmured. “This is astonishing.”

“I know.” Enjolras was standing by the mirror, prepared for the the coming day. And part of the preparation meant looking extremely pleasing in a stunning outfit of red. Dark red trousers, a ruby doublet studded with gold and embroidered with diamond shaped across her chest with puff and slash sleeves - double ones - to rival Grantaire’s. A long red cape fell to her feet. She turned to one side, then another, gazing at herself in the mirror. Grantaire could honestly see her a nobleman’s son or a foreign prince in that outfit, even with her hair knotted at the nape of her neck and trailing down her back in a braid. She turned one way and then another to look at her reflection. There was something in her smile, in her eyes, that Grantaire had never seen. Something free and light. “I’ll have to find gifts for all of them; this must have been far too much work.”

The way her face shone made him feel warm. “It’s worth it, though, I believe.”

That smile again.

Enjolras sat to pull her boots, slimmer in style than Grantaire’s, on. “Is your speech prepared?”

“As prepared as it can be. After Father’s return I had to tweak it a little, but I believe it will get the job done. I assume that I don’t need to ask about yours.” Grantaire ran his hand through his hair, then moved over to the wooden stand where their crowns were held. They had each received a new crown upon their wedding and coronation as royalty of a new country, done in white gold with emerald, ruby, and mother of pearl. Grantaire took his crown, the heavier of the two, and placed it on his head.

“Of course not.” She slipped her other boot on and joined him by the case. Her hands took the remaining crown and she rested it among her curls. “I was glad to see that this was not gold. It clashes with my hair something terrible.”

“It’s worth it to have hair as lovely as yours,” Grantaire said; the words slipped out of his mouth before he truly had processed them.

Enjolras stepped away a bit. “...thank you. Shall we head downstairs? It’s nearly time to leave.”

Grantaire just followed her out, wondering why he was always saying things to make her pull away.

**~~~**

They joined the family for a parade into the square, riding on horseback through decorated streets and throngs of people shouting for them. This part of things always made Grantaire uncomfortable. He was not secure in who he was as a person, if he was honest. Yes, he was a prince. But he was not confident in his ability to rule, and felt as if people would be able to tell if they looked at him enough. Plus, he found that out of all the people on horseback, he was most certainly the least attractive. Grantaire’s mother was, of course, unbelievably beautiful. How she ever came to grace the planet with her beauty was beyond him. Queen Yseult was beautiful despite her behaviour and personality, with her pale, fair skin and blonde hair that held as many waves at the ocean. Her husband was a tall, well-built man with dark skin and a charming smile. And King Heitor? Well. It was nice for Grantaire to know what he would look like if he WERE handsome.

Grantaire did not want to think about Enjolras’ appearance for the moment. That had already gotten him in trouble enough for one day.

In the square, among the booths, tents, platform, and street performers, there was a raised platform for the royal family to sit on. It was decorated silks and bells, as well as flowers that pulsated and moved even without a breeze, thanks to their herbalist mages. There was already quite a crowd there, from nobles to peasants, all waiting to see their new court. As each member approached, they either stepped out of their carriage or off of their horse and took a spot. Grantaire was left standing between his mother and Bahorel. While a lord from some house another stepped up the stage and the floating orb that magnified the the volume of his voice so everyone could hear, Bahorel leaned over to Grantaire. “I heard about the explosion with the outfits,” he whispered. “How is Prince Enjolras holding up?”

“I’m sure that she would be doing better if she could stop the rumors.” If Bahorel had heard it, that meant it made it all the way to the barracks. If it was in the barracks, it was everywhere. “But she is much more pleased with the new outfit. Those seamstresses must have worked their fingers to the bone on it.”

Bahorel nodded. “You know Henri, yes? His sister is one of the seamstress apprentices and he told me just this morning that they were up all night after how much Prince Enjolras impressed them.”

“I’ll definitely make sure they receive proper thanks.” Of course, Enjolras was probably already halfway done with it.

They quieted when his father stepped up to the orb. Each of them had a speech to give, so Grantaire settled in for a long haul. King Heitor went first, sharing the information that they felt stable sharing with the people, telling them what he had learned and seen overseas. He told them a bare outline of plans and ended with a boost in morale. Queen Yseult went next, and Grantaire made a point of ignoring her to look out into the crowd and try to pick out who was from Elus in the crowd based only off of their hairstyles.

King Daxton’s speech was well-written, well-spoken, and got a few laughs from the crowd - Grantaire expected nothing less. When he own mother stepped up to speak, he paid rapt attention. She never looked more like a queen than when addressing the people, her hands folded in front of her, voice loud and clear. Grantaire could not believe how lucky he was to have her. The whole country was lucky to have her.

Enjolras was the next to step up. She cleared her throat and raised a hand in greeting. “My people, previous and new alike,” Enjolras began. “I am honoured and gifted to see you all gathered here before me today. I want to thank you for the warm welcome.

“Our new country is strong, built on the backs not of people like us on this podium, but of hardworking people like you. Whether from Elus or Ketor, every single one of you has had an important part in this most important union. A country is nothing without its people. Looking over all of you today, I can see that Aenorium Valoris will be legendary.”

A loud cheer went up, and she waited for it to fade before continuing. “I will be less of a monarch and more of a place for you,all of you, to voice your concerns. If anything with the way this country is run displeases you, come to me. I strive to create a country of openness, of the free sharing of ideas and philosophies. A free country where no one person is any better than another. I will be the equal of you, madame,” she said, pointing to a woman in threadbare clothes and surrounded by a good many children. “And the the equal of she - no one of us shall be lowered to raise another!

“Where it comes to these attempted invaders, I have but one thing to say to you: be aware, but be not afraid. There is no need to spread fear of another country. There is no need to build ourselves up on hate. I do not believe in immediately pitting our fledgling nation against another. War is not inevitable. We are stronger than we look. Believe in yourselves.” A cheer. “Believe in our comrades who brave armor, weapons, and staffs to keep us safe.” Another cheer, this time with guards in the audience banging on shields. “And above all - believe in each other. Believe in each other, and we will never fall.”

She stepped back among shouts and applause. The speech was short, but powerful, striking, meaningful.

And, Grantaire thought, a bit naïve. Surely Enjolras was capable, but there was more to all of this than just believing.

So when he took the stand, it was with a slightly different mood. “My good people - Elusian, Ketorian, now all flying under the banner of Aenorium Valoris - you have my thanks for coming out today. This is a new and exciting time not only in our history, but in my life as well. I am pleased at the welcome you give to Prince Enjolras, and my mother and father-in-law.

“On this day, I urge you to enjoy the festivities - the music, the food, the spectacles of sport and drama. We have quite a spread of cuisine from the very top of our new country to the extreme bottom, and I know that I personally will be visiting every booth at least once.” There was laughter and cheering at that. Of course, Grantaire was being honest - there was a great deal of food he was eager to sample. “This is a joyous occasion and I implore that it is treated as such.”

He set his jaw and made sure he looked appropriately serious. “But I also urge you to keep a watchful eye out. As you know, the Prince and I were recently attacked by a group of invaders from the Western Continent. The city-states of Huntana, Polonia, and Somon have each sent intruders over our borders with what my father, the King, has confirmed was the goal of attacking the royal family. But do not fear. We will not let our nation fall.

“This means that we all must be on guard. I am not fear-mongering. Just last night, a foreign ship was spotted aiming towards our waters, with no flag to be seen. It fled when one of ours began rowing out to meet it. We have proof, our intelligence overseas, that we are the targets of likely attack. Everyone must keep their eyes and ears open if we are to keep all we hold dear safe. There is a likelihood of war. I refuse to dumb this down or sugar-coat it for you all. You are ALL my family, and I trust you with this - war could be at our very doorstep. People may suffer. There may be death. Slavery, families separated, economic collapse - these are all things that we must worry about when there is a possibility of war. Those city-states would see us suffer through all of this and more, as proven by our fantastic intelligence network. These invaders are instructed by those who only seek to push their own agendas, who want power, and who only know how to gain that power through force.” There was a definite shifting, both in the crowd before him and the line of people behind him. Not even his father had spoken like this, that there could be a time of true suffering coming.

Yes, Grantaire was a realist and could be cynical at times. But he also knew when to hope. “We must keep united. When we are seen as a force that cannot be overcome, people will be loathe to try. And those who would see our downfall may use any number of coercions to infiltrate our ranks - lies, threats, bribes. As my father said, our intelligence has captured records of all of these things, and more, being discussed. I am not encouraging hate,” he said, thinking back to Enjolras’ speech. “I am not encouraging that you take matters into your own hands and take pre-emeptive strikes based on hunches or feelings. I am just making sure that we all are aware.

“I am not so naive as to think that this is just blustering, talk with no action. Because they have already taken action, against our country, against myself, and against our new Prince. This is not the end unless we make it the end. I will not see Valorian blood spilled because we took threats too lightly. We as a people must stand together. Bravery and honour, and a refusal to bow down. I know what we are capable of. YOU know what we are capable of. Let us keep our chins up, shoulders squared, and eyes firmly on the future.”

Honestly, that received more applause than he thought it would. Grantaire stood there for a full 30 seconds of applause, and it was still going as he stepped back. His father put a hand on his shoulder.

“Was it too much?” Grantaire whispered.

“Not at all, son. You’re really coming into your own.”

But as they filed off of the stage, Grantaire saw Enjolras’ curious look. There was going to be A Discussion about this.

**~~~**

Not an hour later, Grantaire and Enjolras were wandering the festival just the two of them. Well, as alone as they could be in such a crowd. They stopped to sample what were apparently the best pickles along the coastline when Enjolras finally burst. Honestly, Grantaire had been watching her, seen the way she mouthed the words to silent arguments, looked at him pointedly as if daring him to say anything, and opening her mouth just to close it again after saying nothing.

“That DID sound like fear-mongering to me,” she finally said through a mouthful of pickle.

“It was not. I said that very clearly. And thank you for finally starting to talk about this - I was about to start taking bets with myself.”

“Hilarious,” she said. “But do you honestly think that was the way to address a new country for the first time? It was hardly a threat of war and more of a promise.”

Grantaire sighed. “We were attacked Enjolras. We have PROOF this is coming. Would you rather we sit back and let it all happen with no preparation?”

“Of course not.” She put her hands on her hip, one with the backs of her fingers pressed into the fabric of her clothing since she was still holding that pickle. But her eyes were narrowed and sharp. “I am more than willing to fight when it comes to it, but do you not think that you are creating some hatred of the Westerners within our people with that sort of talk?”

He rolled his shoulders. “One moment.”

Grantaire disappeared into the crowd and came back with a tankard of ale. Now he could entertain this. ”Alright. Where was I? Ah, yes. I do not want to create a hatred or fear of Westerners with our people. I only want them to be wary of those who would and HAVE done them harm. If you have forgotten so quickly, two men have already died and one was a citizen. I want our people happy and unafraid. I also want them prepared.”

“So you will frighten them and encourage a sense of dangerous nationalism?”

“What? That’s not what I’m doing at all.” 

“In case YOU have forgotten, every country within the past century who has risen by the way of fear and supremacy has fallen quickly. If you want to see the same happen here, then you shall have to go through me.” Enjolras took her half-eaten pickled and slammed it into Grantaire’s tankard. Ale splashed over the side and onto Grantaire’s sleeve. 

“My ale,” he protested. But she was gone, jumping ahead to the next booth the way she clearly jumped to conclusions.

Next to him, the pickle vendor chuckled. He was a bald man with bulging muscles that didn’t seem to go with just selling pickles. “Forgive me, your highness. Marriage problems can trouble the best of us. Here...Chetta? Will you run across the way and get another ale for our prince?”

A small, curvy woman in the back of the booth agreed and left with a little curtsy. Before Grantaire could thank the man, he raised a hand. “No worry, your highness. You look like you need something strong and while my pickles go with most things, ale might not be one of them.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire managed to get in anyways. “Would you also do me a favour and pretend you never heard that?”

“Already forgotten, Prince Hercule.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who never wants to write speeches ever again? it's this guy. Also I've been beta-ing this myself, so if you notice any glaring mistakes, grammar or with E's current pronouns or whatever, that's aaaaalllllllllllll on me! I would be grateful if anything super obvious is pointed out; I won't be offended at all!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	8. Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter than usual. Also a warning for some gore.

That night, Grantaire and Enjolras argued themselves to sleep. For any point Grantaire had, Enjolras had a counterpoint; for any logic Enjolras had, Grantaire had a reality.

He rose early that next morning and left her asleep. He just did not want to be alone with Enjolras and have to argue the same points again; it was too tiring. They all had a small breakfast at the castle before leaving, as a group, to the festival.

It was just as packed and busy as the previous day, but this time that went around the festival to enter from the other side, see what they had offered. By the end of the week, hopefully he would have been able to visit all of the festival. Each vendor, performer, craftsperson - anyone with a booth here was hoping for a royal visit. Grantaire enjoyed that, even if he always had to be sneaky about paying; none of them ever wanted him to but he felt badly if he didn’t pay them for their goods or services. Sometimes he had to sneak them the coin, or simply leave it on their table and walk quickly away.

As the day went on, however, he thought of a few more points he wanted to make to Enjolras, and stored them safely away. But he never saw her until bedtime, and by then he was far too tired. They did not even say goodnight to each other.

**~~~**

On the third day of the festival, Grantaire found himself going about with his father and father-in-law. They cut a figure through the crowd, even if it was slow going - King Heitor wanted to stop and talk to everyone they met along the way. But Grantaire was having a good time.  
“Your father certainly is a personable man, isn’t it?” King Daxton chuckled as King Heitor picked up a commoner boy and swung him through the air.

“He always has been.” Grantaire smiled and watched more children flock around his father. “When I was little they would bring me in the square to make sure I played with children from all walks of life, and Father always got in the games. Some people would say he’s being conniving and manipulative, pretending to be this way...but he’s not. Anyone who would say that doesn’t know him at all.”

“You can tell he’s genuine. It’s one of the ways you’re clearly his son.”

Grantaire looked over at his father-in-law. “You don’t say?”

“I think that when I see your natures towards the people you rule over...well, it’s a clear link between the two of you. Clearer than the nose you share,” King Daxton said.

They shared a laugh at that - both Grantaire and his father had very prominent noses. But hearing that meant a lot to Grantaire. He had always looked up to his father, wanting to emulate him in personality and humour. They looked alike, sure, but that didn’t matter to Grantaire as much as being a man his father would be proud of. He wanted to display his father’s strength, his father’s wisdom. Philanthropy, stamina, attitudes towards all people - Grantaire tried to model himself after his father.

And all in all, he thought he did pretty well.But there were some things about his father that Grantaire could not recreate. His endless optimism, for one. It was obvious that his father never felt the darkness that always crept into Grantaire. No sorrow made a home in the joints of King Heitor. That was one reason Grantaire told now one of the sadness, the numbness, the shadows that lived in his mind. It was something that would never affect a man like his father, and all Grantaire wanted to be was a man like his father. 

He remembered the end of a summer spent traveling with a mock war party full of people from many different countries when he was 13. It had been a trying summer, with a lot of conflict that had nothing to do with staged battles and strategies. It had left Grantaire wondering who he was and left him spending the fall holed up in his room, unwilling (or perhaps unable) to talk to anybody about anything. His father had come up and sat with him, not doing much speaking but reading, painting, maybe asking Grantaire now and again about his opinion on the wording of a decree or the shade of a sky. Slowly, Grantaire had emerged from his shell. He was never the same person again after that, not on the inside, but he felt very deeply that, without his father, he might never have gotten halfway back to the person he was before. Of course his mother had helped, but there was something about the nonchalant, easy way his father had coaxed him back into life without ever knowing what had happened that truly stuck with Grantaire.

To have King Heitor back, especially in such a time of change, was a very comforting thing indeed.

They proceeded along the festival, discussing nothing much as the day progressed. Lunch was a delicious roast chicken from a vendor Grantaire was considering hiring as his own private chef, and afterwards they decided to try and meet up with the queens and Enjolras, wherever they had gotten off too. Grantaire was not thrilled with the prospect of seeing Enjolras after their lengthy silence, but supposed that, as long as they were in a group, it would be fine.

The middle of the square was packed tight, and it was nearly impossible to move. But people still made way, as best as they could, for the three royal men to pass by. Grantaire heard a wild scream and assumed that it came from one of the death-defying shows where people would swing on trapeze with nothing beneath them, float high into the air, walk on fire, or put their head in the mouths of wild animals. It was all in good fun and honestly he paid no mind to the sound - it was just one more addiction to the cacophony of a festival. So they kept moving, talking laughing.

But then there was another scream cutting through the air, and it was clearly not in delight. 

Grantaire’s hand went for his sword, even though he knew that, in this crowd, he could not draw his weapon. A pair of guards was pushing through as much as they could when more screams came from what sounded like the Eastern side of the square. King Heitor moved to follow the guards, with the other two following. A quick exchange revealed that neither of the guards knew what was going on either, but that it could not be good.

The fire, as usual, was something that could be smelled before it could be seen. One of the largest tents was ablaze, with people running from it. Pushing against the crowd that way was hard going, but Grantaire needed to get there, needed to solve the problem, put out the fire.

One more scream told him that the fire was not the most of their worries. This one was sharp, shrill - a child’s. And then it was strangled, gurgling, and gone. He shook his head and held his hands flat towards the ground. One heavy stream of air pushed him up, just enough to be able to see over the heads of the crowd.

What he saw was a bloodbath. There guards fighting back against those they could, but Grantaire could see no difference between those they were fighting and those that were running from the scene. Bodies, six or seven of them, littered the ground, and blood flowed into the grooves of the cobblestone walkway. Grantaire dropped to the ground.

“We have to get there, NOW - people are DEAD.” With extra force, the group of five pushed themselves to the front of the crowd. Grantaire saw the kings jump into the fray, pairing up with guards as they battled a group of maybe 12 people. He concentrated on his attention on the tent, wanting to put the fire out before it spread to the booths and flag to ignite the entire square. He raised both arms in the air, swirling them above his head in delicate, complicated motions he had spent a lifetime learning. Around and between his arms, a funnel of wind started to form. It grew in size with each twist, and when it was large enough, he pushed it towards the tent. The small hurricane absorbed the flames, twirling them higher and higher into the sky until they vanished into nothing but smoky clouds. Satisfied that the tent was not going to catch on fire again, Grantaire reached for the sword that hung at his hip.

Then there was a sharp pain in his shoulder blade. He staggered away and turned around - behind him stood one of the guards they had followed to the battle, holding a bloody dagger. “I wouldn’t if I were you, your highness.”

But Grantaire did not care for the pain in his shoulder. Thankfully it was in his left shoulder blade and not his right - he wanted his full swing of motion for this and while his sword was heavy, he could used it single handedly if he truly had to. He quickly unsheathed his blade and charged the guard. Moments later the guard was on the ground, dead eyes still wide in shock. Grantaire vaguely recognized him as a new guard, having only joined in the month or so after the wedding was announced.

Why had he attacked?

There was no time to think on it now. Grantaire turned back for the battle, which he noticed had grown in size. Not only guards, but ordinary citizens were joining the brawl, which had expanded greatly in the short time Grantaire had been otherwise occupied. And then he noticed that a good number of guards seemed to be attacking each other, or civilians that backed away. 

When he saw one guard make a drive for King Daxton, he moved quickly. Grantaire rammed into the guard’s side to knock him off balance, shouting the king’s name. “Hercule!” King Daxton called out. “They’re Somonians! Your father heard them speak it!”

And then what should have became all too obvious crashed down around him.

These were the Westerners. Aenorium Valoris had been infiltrated.

He rejoined the fight anew. Every single time he assumed that they had to be done, someone else was on him, a new blade, a new magic, a new face. He was very badly burned with the ice of a foreign mage dressed as any lady of the city would be dressed, and killed a man who seemed nothing more than a peasant but had come at him with nothing less that a flail. The fight seemed never ending, and at one point, with his wounds, Grantaire had to admit the best course of action was to pull back and find a place to rest, strategize, plan.

Grantaire moved carefully through the fray, and luckily managed to lock eyes with his father before crawling into an abandoned booth. It stank of fish, but it was better than keeping this up without a plan.

Not five minutes later, his father crawled into the booth with a disclaimer of his presence, so Grantaire didn’t attack.

“My boy, look at you…” he said. His crown was gone and he looked rather worse for wear himself. “These are our enemies, in great numbers. Some of the guard are in their pocket, or are WITH them, and this cannot drag on this way. I do not know who to fight and who to save - these invaders are dressed as people of our lands that I would never look twice at crossing the street!”

“I know, I know, we need a plan to save as many people as possible. We sho-”

“No,” King Heitor said. Grantaire just started at him. “Hercule, what we need to do it get to your mother, get to Queen Pinar, and get them to the safe house. I want you there, too, but I know that I will not win that argument. You can take care of yourself, as can myself, and Daxton, and Enjolras. But neither of the queens have much in the way of battle training, nor magic strong enough to put up a fight for long. We HAVE to get them out of here.”

Grantaire could not help but agree.

Together, they left the booth. Grantaire moved along the back of the booths, having to ignore every single one of his instincts that were shouting out to get in there and help his people, who were suffering, losing, dying. But he needed to get to his Mother - she was often sickly, and her pain powers lay in healing others. If the guards closest to her turned out to be like the others...well. Grantaire just would not let that happen.

He moved out of range of the closest part of the fight, to a street that, compared to what he had just left, was eerily calm. No people walking, running, or fighting. Not part of the festival, with no booths around. He could hear the fighting he had just left, and, he thought, coming from elsewhere. There were a few bodies strewn out around him. A young girl was weeping over a form Grantaire could not even look at. How could he leave her here? 

“Hello,” he said softly, not wanting to scare her. He probably looked frightening, with his frozen burn of a face and blood-soaked clothing. The girl looked up with wild eyes. “It’s alright. Do you know who I am?I’m Prince Hercule, and I’m going to help you.”

She whistled, long and low, and a group of armed people came from the alleyway. Grantaire hardly had time to realize that this was a trap before he was running, dangerously turning his back on his pursuers. He decided the best plan of action was to return to the fray and lose them. 

Grantaire tried to do more running than fighting, and was half successful as he jumped over bodies and splashed through puddles of blood. He still had to use his blade and his magic, and things were showing no signs of slowing down. He spotted King Daxton and moved to him. They started on the way to a safe house, the Grantaire family townhouse that was never used. There was no breath for talking, only energy for running, for fighting, for dodging. He wanted to know where his father was but was scared to ask. He had to operate as if his family was alive. And what about Bahorel? He was the captain so he was very likely a huge target as well. No, no, don’t think about that. Keep going. Push, push, push.

Just when he thought that maybe he was running on absolutely nothing, he spotted Father. And next to him, Mother, with Queen Yseult and Enjolras beside them. His mother’s front was splashed with red, but she seemed uninjured. Enjolras was holding her arm as a weird angle, and it was wrapped tightly with the sash from Queen Yseult’s dress. Seeing his mother there re-energized him, and Grantaire burst into a sprint. He mowed down someone who ran for him, then threw his arms out to wrap her in his arms.

Then ams reached from behind her and yanked her back. Before anyone could move, a sharp knife was drawn across her throat. The blood took a moment to bubble, but once it started it did not stop. 

Queen Pinar’s body crumbled to the ground, her head lolling loosely on that slit neck. She was left staring up at Grantaire with green eyes that had once been so full of life, fading into nothing at all.


	9. Hidden

There was nothing. Nothing in Grantaire’s world. There was screaming around him, blood on him, and his mother’s corpse in front of him. His father leapt into battle, and the murderer was quickly no more, face being pounded into pulp by the heavy handle of a sword. Queen Yseult was screaming, King Daxton was trying to calm her while protecting her, and Grantaire’s mother was dead.

There were hands on him, and in that moment, with his vision blurry, his hearing fuzzy, Grantaire didn’t mind if those hands took him too, because his mother was dead. But they were not pushing magic into him, nor steel, nor anything. Those hands were smaller, pulling at him, trying to gain his attention. Then his vision ceased to be a blur of white and red and death and became a typhoon of golden blonde and warm brown. Those small hands moved from his chest to his face, cupping his cheeks. The shape in front of him blurred, shifted, and a muted sound washed over his ears.

“Grantaire!” the shape called, the familiar letters and sounds meaning nothing to him. The shape and colours became a face, a face he knew.

Enjolras pushed herself up, their faces nearly touching. “Grantaire, we need to MOVE!”

But how could he go anywhere? He couldn’t leave his mother.

Another familiar voice joined in, deeper, older.And then he was being pulled along, pulled away, everything a blur, a mess, and the crowd swarming, pushing, pulsing, separating Grantaire from where his mother seeped into the ground of the city she loved.

**~~~**

He didn’t know where he was going, just that a strong force was pushing him, pulling him, tanking him away from the square, down small side streets that criss-crossed, some true paths, some only allies. The hand on his elbow was no longer small, it was large, strong, and kept a secure hold of him. Enjolras ran beside him, sword aflame.

They were shouting to each other, but Grantaire didn’t know what they were saying, who was there, who was leading him. Metal clanked near him.

“Shit!” the deeper voice called out. “Blockade!”

Grantaire tried to look up, where a silver arm to his right was pointing. A blur of brown, with human-shaped smudges in front of it. He was pulled down another alleyway, and emerged onto and emptier street. Something told him it curved around to meet where the other had been, but the moment of clarity was gone as quickly as if had come. The kept running, and Grantaire heard more glass tinkling now. 

They moved through debris and yes, bodies, more bodies. And then, all of a sudden, a hissed alert, and he was shoved into a building.

The door was open, because with the window smashed in there was no need to lock the door to prevent intruders. Grantaire’s vision was coming back to him now, but my bit. They were surrounded by reams of parchment and bolts of silk, with paints and wood samples on display. Along the walls he saw a massive array of fans, from small paper ones to ornate silken ones adorned with feathers. The one thing they shared was how they were painted. IN a different time, grantaire would have been struck by their beauty. But he was not 

He was just hurried along. Grantaire paused when Enjolras did, and turned around to see the owner of the deeper voice. Bahorel stared down at him with grim eyes. “... Grantaire, are you with us now?”

“I believe so.”

Bahorel lay a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I am so sorry, my friend...this never should have happened, and especially not the queen…”

A loud screech interrupted the,. They turned to look for the source, and saw that Enjolras had hauled open a door in the floor of the fan shop. “Here should do...Captain, are you sure that there is nothing I can do to convince you - “

“Your highness, as Captain of the Guard, my utmost duty is the protection of the royal family. I insist that you and your husband remain down here until such time as myself or another trusted official comes to find you. With the...recent developments in the the clear loyalties of our recently hired guards, if I cannot come to you, I will give my Captain’s ring to the person I send. They will announce their arrival with the Heavensbird song. Do you recall, Grantaire?”

“Of course I do.” 

“Good. Prince Enjolras, this is the call you will hear.” Bahorel pursed his lips and gave a long, elaborate, trilling whistle. “Please, I beg of you - remain here. The situation is too volatile and we have already suffered far too much loss to put our crown princes at risk.”

Enjolras did not look happy about it, but climbed down the stairs. Grantaire followed before Bahorel shut the door with a promise to return as quickly as he was able. Once the door above them was shut, they were left in near perfect darkness. Grantaire stumbled against something, which felt like a metal drum with a thick liquid inside. Something sloshed out of the top and Grantaire tried to just move past it. The darkness ignited in front of him - a fireball in Enjolras’ hand. “Thank you,” he murmured, following Enjolras to the back of the basement room.

They moved as far back as possible and settled on a bench near the wall, close to a small offshoot room just in case they had to hide again. Enjolras found a candle and lit it, set it on the nearest table. She murmured something about hoping nothing down here was overly flammable.

But then her eyes were on him. “Grantaire,” she said softly. He glanced at her, but didn’t know what to do or what to say. Enjolras turned towards him and took his hand. “I am so sorry...if someone had been paying more attention...she had been doing so well, determined to find you, and now…”

Her voice caught in her throat, and she leaned her forehead against his shoulder. Even in that, she felt stiff, as if she were holding herself rigidly. “I know nothing I can say will help, but...your mother was a good woman. She had a truly kind soul that I was no longer existed in the world. Even in the short time I knew her...she was a good person. A very good person that made us all feel welcome and warm. I think that will always be remembered. We’ll make sure it will be remembered.”

Grantaire just nodded, and clung to Enjolras’ hand.

**~~~**

How long they were down in the basement, Grantaire couldn’t say. It had been a quiet time, both of them lost in thought but with Enjolras stroking his knuckles the entire time. He was vaguely aware of his body calling out for food but he certainly wasn’t hungry. 

Enjolras finally sighed and removed her hand from his. “We’re both injured. Let me see where you’re hurt…”

He didn’t really respond past have a shrug; despite the pain, he had forgotten that he even was injured. Enjolras just stood and took a look at Grantaire’s wounds, anyways slowly and methodically. “Ice magic,” she mumbled at the white burns on his face. “Here, let me try something.” 

Enjolras pressed her hands together, and grantaire could see flames coming from between her fingers. After a moment the flames died. She warned him that it would feel warm and maybe very odd before pressing her hands to the wound. He could feel the warmth and, bit by bit, the cold sensation along his face and hairline felt as if it were being pulled away. For just a couple minutes, Enjolras concentrated on heating her hands to heal the ice burn on his face as best she could. “It shouldn’t scar,” she said. “We’ll warm it up a little more later on, alright? I don’t want to do to much at once.”

“Alright.”

“Where else are you hurt?” she asked.

He shrugged his jacket and shirt off, and turned to let her see the stab wound in his left shoulder blade. Enjolras took a moment to look at his back, prod a little, and after a moment made a small “oh” sound. “This...well, it looks clean. But it should really be healed.

“If I had something to use as a paste, I could almost solder it back together.”

“...solder?” Grantaire muttered. He turned to her, and her face was serious as always. “I thought that was only for metal.”

“It can work here, along the same theory, if I had something to coat it with. We did something similar in Valay, but we had a poultice meant for the same thing. It would just hold it together and stop anything from getting into the wound until we can find a healer or your own healing takes charge,” she said, moving off into the dark room with her hand lit as she searched, presumably for something to use.

Grantaire tried not to think about how his mother’s healing abilities, the strongest in the family, hadn’t been enough to save her. With a wound like hers and done so quickly, nothing could have been done. That maybe hurt the most. But he tried to push that away. “My healing abilities are nothing - I might as well not have them at all. We cannot rely on them.”

“Then I will do as I can.” 

After some searching, she came up with a sealed jar labeled in some foreign language. “Birch tar from Walska,” she said. “I can use this.”

Grantaire did as she said and lay down on his stomach. Even if he wanted to argue, there was little energy in him. Enjolras settled near him and he heard the sound of the jar opening.She told him that she was heating up the tar so it became pliable, and after a moment, a warm paste was spread over his back, and it was almost soothing. But then Enjolras explained that she was taking the heat back so it would solidify, and the warmth was gone. “There. It might be harder to move now, but...that should help a little.”

“My thanks,” Grantaire muttered. He sat, but left his shirt off. The part of him that was still living felt warmly towards Enjolras for all of her hard work. “Let me see your injuries.” 

Enjolras hesitated. But then she she untied the sash and slipped her jacket off. “My right arm,” she said, pulling it out of her undershirt through the collar,leaving it hooked under her armpit. “It was run through by a rapier.”

It was not a large wound, but it did run right through her arm and out the other side. “You’ve been running around like this and helping me with a hole through your arm?”

“I do what must be done,” she said. Grantaire just shook his head. There wasn’t much he could do, and Enjolras was left to solder the wound as she had done Grantaire’s. He looked at the sash, and decided it was too dirty. So he tore a piece from the bottom of his own undershirt, which was still rather clean, and tied it around the wound.

Enjolras looked sort of surprised when their eyes met. She looked away and pulled her shirt back up. “That’s it nothing more. Well…”

She sat down and pulled both of her boots off . In each boot, there was a thick cut, all the way through the leather, about six inches from the top of the heel. There were small, matching cuts through her trousers, stockings, and leaving red stains from where her legs had been nicked. “I believe they were attempting to sever my tendons. A poor attempt.”

“They’re cowards,” Grantaire muttered. He felt another bubble in him, that these people could come into his country and try to do something so low-handed.

“That we can agree on.”

Quiet fell again for a little while, and Grantaire lost himself in the shadows so easily that perhaps he may have fallen asleep at time stretched on.

**~~~**

The candle had burned down about halfway, however, when they heard noises upstairs.

Enjolras stood up and took her sword in hand. She moved closer to the stairs. But there was no whistling, no bird call. But laughter. Shouting. And then crashing.

“They’re looting the place,” she whispered. “Destroying a person’s business, a person’s livelihood...this is disgusting. I have to go stop them; damn what Bahorel says.”

Grantaire thought he should do something, maybe, as Enjolras bounded up the stairs, but he had no strength. His hands were freezing but he was sweating, and despite that they hadn’t moved in hours his heart was racing. He didn’t know what was going on.

But from above them, there was a very loud thud, something falling that was so heavy that the floor above them shook. Dust rained down from where the object had fallen - just above Enjolras, and Grantaire could see in their small supply of light that the dirt had coated her a muted grey-brown. “No,” she swore. “No no no!”

She thundered up the rest of the stairs and pushed at the door, but it wouldn’t budge upwards. Using all of her strength, Enjolras threw herself upwards. Grantaire watched her utter a foul word, and try three more times; each only succeeded in making her filthier. There was no longer any sound from above them, but what that meant wasn’t clear.

“...Grantaire, I know you are having a hard time and I understand, but perhaps you could try to help me?”

He stood up and joined her at the door, pushing with all he could despite the pain in his back. Even in their joined efforts and with Grantaire’s strength, it would not open. “Well,” he mused, heading back down the stairs. “We told Bahorel we would stay down here anyways.”

“I suppose...but I don’t..I don’t like being trapped.” She gave the door one more futile push. “It’s alright. It’s alright, this is alright.” Enjolras went back down the stairs and moved for the light. She paced back back and forth in front of the bench a couple times and pushed a hand in her hair. “Is there another candle in here? I need another candle…”

She let up her hand and started to case the room. There were inky footprints on the floor, large ones leading back to the bench - Grantaire must have stepped in whatever he spilled. Oh well. Enjolras was anxious, moving around in a jerky, almost frantic way until she found a candle. When she lit it, she didn’t put it near them, however, she put it at the other end of the room, leaving a section in the middle that was still shadowy but could at least be seen past. Only then did she seem to calm, and returned to the bench.

“...only one person knows we are in here,” she said, and her voice was so faint that Grantaire, even in his fugue state, could tell something was wrong. He hooked his arm around her shoulders half for that, and half because the idea of a warm body against his seemed to be the only comforting thing he could think of right now.

Enjolras leaned against him and they waited. What else was there to do?

He didn’t sleep, and did not think Enjolras did either. She tried to speak with him, about his mother, but he had nothing to say. They briefly discussed what must be going on, and Grantaire felt the gloom reaching up into his numbness. What a fitting place for that.

**~~~**

“Do you think that the invaders have been driven out?” he asked hours later, just because the silence was starting to weigh on him. 

“I don’t know,” Enjolras said. By then they had switched positions and she was sitting on the floor, leaning her head against the bench. She had folded up her jacket and was using it as a pillow, but shifted uncomfortably every couple minutes. “I want to believe that our forces have overcome, but...if we had succeeded, someone would have come for us.”

“Bahorel was the only one who knew. Perhaps he’s dead as well.” Grantaire said it callously as if the idea did not revive his heart long enough to send a bolt of fear through it.

“Don’t think that way…” she murmured.

Grantaire sighed. All of this time spent locked in the dark with his grief and no information was wearing on him. “Not everything is as happy as you seem to think it is,” he said, mind tripping backwards to her speech. “Bad shit happens every day, as you can so clearly tell.”

“I know that. Why do you think me such an optimistic fool? Is this all because I refused to let my people live in fear of - “

“Of what? Of the VERY PEOPLE that attacked us today and killed my mother?” Grantaire stood up, too fast. All of a sudden, everything was bubbling over and he wanted to hit something. “We could have used just a bit more fear, don’t you think? Just SOMETHING to have pushed better vigilance? Then maybe my mother wouldn’t have spilled her blood all over the cobblestones!”

“You saw them as well as I did!” Enjolras stood as well, putting them on (barely) even footing. “No one could have picked them out in a crowd! Some of them were GUARDS that passed under all measures taken, Grantaire! I understand that you must be going through so much pain right now, but please!”

“How CAN you understand?” Grantaire didn’t buy that for a second - Enjolras’ parents were both live and well the last time they had been seen. “How can you even PRETEND -”

He lost his own words and threw his hands over his eyes. Grantaire had been so empty for hours, but now? Now it was there, hard, sharp, destroying him. “Sh-she’s gone...she’s gone and no one will...will e-ever see her again!” Grantaire lowered himself to the bench but missed, slipping instead to the ground. He sat in the fading light on the dirty floor and sobbed, for all the things his mother would never again do, all of the parts of his life she would never take part of. His chest was aching almost immediately, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. “She b-barely got to see my father again! She’ll never go to the beach again, or visit her pet goats, and I’ll n-never sit with her and listen to her play the p-piano!”

Enjolras lowered herself and folded her arms around him, angular and stiff, like a statue come to life. “I’m sorry, we shouldn’t be fighting this way, not when this has happened. I’m sorry...just go, let it out.”

Grantaire wept for everything that had been lost, not only his mother, but the sense of security for his nation, the people there, everything that had been taken. And through it all, Enjolras held him and stroked his hair. He had never been so grateful for another human’s presence, and soon enough put his arms around her. She seemed to become even more of a statue before, but did not let him go.

Eventually, he felt all dried out and pulled away from her. Not all of the way, just enough to see her. “I…”

“It’s alright,” she whispered. “It’s fine.”

He nodded, and she gathered up the ruffled sleeve of her shirt. Enjolras wiped at the tears a little. She asked if he was tired now, and he had to admit that he was. With their jackets and a bolt of stained satin, they fashioned a little bed. Grantaire fell into a light, fretful sleep, but did not let go of her hand.

**~~~**

Sounds from above woke them. Grantaire had a blissful moment of confusion before yesterday crashed around him. He sat up, face turned towards the ceiling. Someone was moving around up there, but it didn’t sound like looters. Nor did it sound like a Heavensbird’s song. 

There was a loud scraping, and Enjolras stirred. She sat as well, pushing her mess of blonde curls out of her face. She looked upwards as well. “What’s that?” she whispered, voice thick with sleep. “Was there a whistle?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t know who’s up there.”

They waited and listened, and soon enough there was a dragging sound above the stairs. With a shared look, they both knew that they had the same thought - hide. Even if it was someone who was friendly, it was best to have the element of surprise on their side. The gathered up their jackets and made for the small room off to the side. It was less a room and more a broom closet, but they hid in there, pressed against each other, door open.

After a couple moments, the sound of the door being opened filled the air. Grantaire felt Enjolras grip not her sword, but his own. His left, her right, was the closest to the door, so it would be easiest for her to make the attack. She usually fought with her left hand, leaving her sword open to _his_ left hand, but Grantaire had no option of using her sword with his left hand, not with the glue hard on his left shoulder blade impeding his movements. Still he gripped it, under her arm, just to have a weapon in hand.

Only one set of footsteps descended the stairs and they sounded light. That felt promising to Grantaire, but look at Enjolras - size was no guarantee of might. The person outside seemed to wander around the room, muttering about mess. 

Enjolras looked up at him and mouthed ‘the footprints.’ Shit. Grantaire hadn’t even thought about those. But it was not as if there was anything they could have done about it, but still. The person outside fiddled around a little bit more, and dragged something away - probably the silk that had been their small cushion between the princes and the floor. Footsteps came close to the door they were hiding behind, and Enjolras, with her sword arm was closest to the door, tightened her grip.

“Uhm...your highness?” came a voice that was gentle and accented, possibly Walskin - something from up North, surely. “I...only assume so because, well, there’s a crown out here and we usually don’t keep a lot of those laying around….

Grantaire reached up to touch his own crown, but Enjolras’ was nowhere to be seen. “You can come out. I’m not one of them, I’m just a fan-maker’s apprentice so unless you’re frightened of hand-painted hummingbirds…”

Enjolras looked to Grantaire, then reached out to open the door. Standing there was a slim person, a bit younger than them, with a mess of freckles, wavy auburn hair, and bright brown eyes. This person stepped back at the sight of them and sank into a low curtsy, bottom of the jacket brushing the floor. “Forgive me, your highness _es_ ," the person said. “I didn’t know you were both here. But it is quite a relief.”

The fan-maker’s apprentice rose and looked them both in the eye, one after another. “Quite a lot has happened. We need you now more than ever.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot's going on this time; hope it's not too rushed. 
> 
> Thanks for all of the reads, kudos, and comments, everyone!


	10. Gathering

The fan-maker’s apprentice introduced themself as Feuilly, an immigrant from nearby Walska, before bringing the hiding royals upstairs. They explained that they lived above the shop as well as worked there, and after checking to make sure that no one was watching from the street, led them through the shop and to an indoor staircase. It was thin, wobbling, and winding, but it led up to a small apartment with only two rooms.

“You must be hungry,” they said, gesturing to a rough hewn table that was painted with beautiful designs. “Please sit, your highnesses, and I’ll get you something to eat.”

Enjolras looked over at them.”I’m sorry, but I would rather hear what has been going on outside.”

“Prince Enjolras, I will...well, not happily, but I will explain everything I know. While you eat.” Feuilly moved over to a window, where dried meat was hanging in the sunlight. The way they moved and the tone in their voice meant that even Enjolras sat down. Grantaire met her eyes and shrugged (wincing again - he kept forgetting about that wound on his back) while Feuilly bustled around the the kitchen.

Only once each of them had a plate of dried meat, crusty bread, and cheese in front of them did Feuilly sit down as well. “I am not sure if you’ve been able to keep track of time, but it’s been over a full day since the attack truly began. Almost a day and a half - there were looters out until noontime today. I haven’t seen a single window that was not smashed in.”

Grantaire barely mused on the fact that Feuilly’s gentle, sing-song accent did not make this news any easier to hear. “What about our parents? The Kings and…”

Feuilly could not look him in the eye; that gave Grantaire all he needed to know. “I...do not know how much you know.”

“I was there when my mother was slain,” Grantaire said, wanting to spare this small person from having to deliver this bad news.

“I am very sorry, Prince Hercule. It is a vicious, terrible thing that has happened. Your mother is the only one we know for sure has been killed. The others are missing, but..” Feuilly looked up, looking at Grantaire with green-flecked eyes. “Your highness, your mother’s head is piked in front of the castle, which has been taken by the invading forces. I have seen it for myself, and it is no rumor. Your fathers and Queen Yseult are missing.”

Grantaire lowered his eyes. He was not at all hungry anymore and couldn’t even imagine eating what was on his plate. “Her. Her head was…”

“I just meant to give you warning. I would recommend that you venture nowhere near the castle, but, just in case something happens…”

Enjolras reached across the small table and took Grantaire’s hand; he held it gratefully. She looked over at Feuilly. “You said the castle has been taken. Can you elaborate?”

Feuilly pushed the hat perched on their flouncing hair back. “I...wish I had more information. We know that the invading forces are primarily Somonian, with much support from the Huntanis and Polonians. They have taken the castle and, as far as we can tell, have slaughtered nearly everybody found inside, along with those were killed in the attack on the festival. There are bounties out for not only yourselves, but other nobles that they could name but could not find. Things in the castle are already being transported out to be sold. And as I have said, no one knows where your families are, if they live, or if they fled, or taken. That is...all I know. As for the moment, no one trusts anyone and information is terribly hard to come by.”

“It’s almost too much. All of those servants,” Enjolras muttered. Her usually vibrant eyes were dark. “So many dead. And all for what? A few riches? A little power? It would be different were this a revolution, a push against an oppressing power...but we are nothing of the sort, and never have been to them.”

“The Orton War,” Grantaire mentioned.

“...that could be,” Enjolras mused. “Both Ketor and Elus aided their previous colonizers in a war against the whole of the Western continent before we were born. This was when they were a young country but before Nalor had forced all of those taxes and started to really take advantage of the colonies...that could be it.”

“Nalor would be too powerful, too established of a country to take on...but us? A target, for sure,” Feuilly said. They stood up almost roughly. “Let me venture out. I will see what I can find, gather information.”

Enjolras gave them a look. “Will you be safe out there?”

“They aren’t going after poor orphans, your highness,” they said with a grin. “Stay up here - only my master knows these rooms are here, and he is in a meeting with fellow artisans and merchants to decide what to do after nearly everyone has been looted, so he will not be home for many hours. Remain here, use my space as yours.

“Now, more than ever, all I have belongs to my mother of Aenorium Valoris.”

 

**~~~**

 

While Enjolras spent the time waiting peeking out of windows and trying to assess the situation. Grantaire spent it lying on Feuilly’s lumpy sofa, trying to get the image of his mother’s disembodied head on a spike, watching this terror from the castle door.

She had always loved greeting their visitors. But not like this. He wanted to find whoever had done this, who had given the order, who had done the deed, who had put her head on the pike, and who had put that pike out front of her home. Each of those people would suffer a worse fate - he would hang them, living, from the front of the castle for everyone to see.

This is what happens when someone attempts to take what is not theirs.

 

**~~~**

 

Feuilly returned as the sun set, their arms holding few pieces of parchment and a bag with a roasted chicken and a bottle of wine at their side. As before, they made everyone eat before sitting down to business. Grantaire managed to eat a little more that time, but got more wine into his stomach than meat.

Once the meal was cleaned up, they sat around the table with a folded piece of parchment before each of them. There was also a heavy rolled up piece of fabric and a pile of posters with WANTED stamped across the top.

“I got these from one of I would say about fifty people stationed through the city passing them out,” Feuilly said, raising the folded pamphlet. The posters I stole off of the walls themselves when it seemed as if no one was watching. But the pamphlets hold much more information.”

They all settled down to read, so Grantaire opened his pamphlet.

“A NEW COUNTRY BUILT ON OLD BLOOD,” the majority of the front page contained, written in red ink. Beneath that, he could read, “As our new Republic, not yet born, was fighting for the right to merely exist, Ketor and Elus were sending troops, weapons, and aid to our cruel Nalorian oppressors. Now we are a country in our own right, and this infant Aenorium Valoris will pay for the way it assisted in putting us under Nalorian heels for so long!”

The very bottom was emblazoned with a bright red and orange flag and the phrase “THE REPUBLIC OF MENDIR WILL RISE LIKE THE SUN.”

On the inside, it was a list of cited instances of Ketorian and Elusian aid to Nalor during the Orton War just as Grantaire had mentioned, personal stories of suffering at Ketorian steel or Elusian flame. Grantaire heaved a sigh. “It appears we were correct,” he mumbled.

“Exactly as we thought,” Enjolras said. “Look on the back - these people claim that we owe them our riches and power and location because OUR aid to Nalor was what let them be so colonized for so long. This is...such a disappointment. I had such high hopes after their revolution. What is more powerful than a people rising as one to take their country back?”

“Yes, their country,” Grantaire quipped. “Not ours.”

“No. Not ours. Had they only asked for assistance, for allegiance, it would have been provided. Ketor and Elus had nothing to do with their war once Nalor was proven to be power hungry and man with control. This is a ridiculous idea, to come after US.” Enjolras pushed her hair back and flipped through the pamphlet one more time.

Feuilly set their pamphlet down. “Nalor itself would have been the target, that I am sure of, but they are a much larger country with a heavy amount of allies and magic more powerful than most places could ever dream of. Plus this new Republic of Mendir surely wants the riches along the coastline, and the vantage point of such a well-placed country.”

“This country blames their failings on aid our grandparents offered instead of their inability to form cohesive states and desperate need to keep their own factions on TOP instead of rising together as a people should and creating a powerful infrastructure,” Enjolras said. “While I am moved by their loyalty to a free country, I am DISGUSTED by the way in which they think they can create one. If only they had suitable leaders…”

Grantaire sat his cup heavily on the table. “You are coming dangerously close to defending these people.”

“Did you not say in our first council meeting that since revolution is all they know, revolution is all we can expect from them? That since it worked for them in the past, they would try it again?” Enjolras offered.

“That was in no defense, and certainly is not now. Or do you forget that my mother’s head is rotting outside of my home as we speak?”

“Grantaire, of COURSE not. I am only trying to get into their heads, figure out...I don’t know. Anything.” Enjolras took his cup of wine and drained it herself. “Think of a solution.”

“Forgive me for arguing,” Feuilly said. “But I think survival may be higher on the list for the moment.” They pulled out the poster listing bounties for each member of the royal family. “These have been found for the two of you, but not your parents, which makes me think that either they have been apprehended or they want all of us to _think_ that they have been apprehended. But either way, this means that people are looking for you, and these people want you dead.”

“With the guards turning against us, we don’t know who to trust,” Enjolras all but groaned.

“They’ve been planning this a long time,” Grantaire interjected. The other two quieted and looked at him. He held up the sign advertising his father’s bounty. “Father has not worn his hair that way for almost a year. And Enjolras’ mother’s hair is longer now than in this. Then this, what’s this…”

He stood and unfurled the fabric - it was a copy of a painting done in the excitement for Enjolras and Grantaire’s wedding, in the months before it, of Enjolras in a gown that looked nothing like the one she had worn and Grantaire in clothing that he had never owned. It was a guess of what the day might look like to satiate a hungry crowd, and now here it was with paint splashed over their faces and words burned over their joined hands: CHILDREN PLAYING GODS ARE DOOMED TO FALL.

“These are not things they could have done quickly, and these pamphlets are clearly hand done, there’s not a trace of magic in there. And with the guards truly being our enemies, we haven’t even accepted new guards within six months of the start of the wedding.

“I know that things have been rough between us for years. But this? They have been planning this particular act for a long time, actively moving against us for longer than we thought.”

He let the picture fall to the ground in a heavy cascade of fabric and paint flecks. “This is all so…”

“Disheartening,” Enjolras offered. “To say the least.”

“The very least.” Grantaire took up his own wanted poster. “What do we do now?”

There was a silence until Feuilly coughed a little. “Find allies, your hignesses. Find allies who can help. Aenorium Valoris is made of two beloved countries. An ally should not be hard to find.”

“Perhaps Nalor,” Grantaire suggested with an acidic laugh.

“I know you meant that to be barbed, but they may be our best chance,” Enjolras said. “Feuilly, I will not ask you to do anything that will put any sort of mark on your back.”

“You needn’t ask,” Feuilly said. “I will go out and find what I can. Meanwhile...rest. They two of you are still look rather ragged, ah, your hignesses. Rest now. I have a feeling that rest will not come easy for quite some time.”

 

**~~~**

 

For another full day and half of the next, they waited. Feuilly went out into the world Enjolras and Grantaire could no longer be part of and gathered what information they could. But it was difficult. Everything from weapons to food to information was being bottlenecked into the country, and anyone who was outspoken against the new rulers of Aenorium Valoris was quickly silenced. According to Feuilly, the name Thénardier was being thrown around a lot, but they couldn’t say for what. It was just something that they had heard quite a lot, and knew that whoever this name belonged to sounded important.

Finally, after the sun went down on their fourth day of hiding, when things were getting harder to handle, when Enjolras was just putting her boots on to go out there and take the castle back by herself, Feuilly ran in up the stairs with quite a smile on their face.

“Peraesea!” they called out. “Peraesea is taking refugees!”

“What?” Enjolras asked, standing up so quickly that she nearly knocked her stool over.

“It just reached our ears today! Peraesea is taking refugees from our country!” Feuilly was out of breath and all but collapsed against the table. “I heard it from a...a friend whom I trust greatly, and I’ve done all I could to verify. People are already starting to pack up and leave….

“But it’s not that easy…” By then they were heaving so hard that Grantaire had to lower them onto a stool. “Thank...thank you, your highness…”

After a moment to catch their breath, Feuilly looked up at them. “All of the countries surrounding Peraesea are under suspicion of aiding the Mendirians across their borders. If not the country itself, then someone within that country has let these people sneak through in such a way that they never have to come near our borders…”

“So if we look for an ally in Peraesea, we must cross lands that may or may not be full of those who would betray us?” Enjolras asked.

She crossed to the window, picking her sword up on the way. With one swift movement, she threw the window open on a city of darkness, or people most likely suffering, of people dead. “Then I suggest we go now. I will not sit by and wait a moment longer.”

Grantaire stood as well. “We’ll plan tonight and leave on the morrow,” he offered instead. “We cannot go into this blind.”

“Of...of course not. I am just eager to make our moves. Every day we sit back and wait, the foothold these invaders have in our countries and our lives becomes deeper and sturdier.” She turned and looked them both over. “Doe anyone have suggestions?”

Feuilly stood to pour themself a drink, and Grantaire requested one as well. This was promising to be a very long night indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I promise to have a map for you soon, because I too am confused about where these borders rest.


	11. Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for some real movement! I love getting to introduce characters.

Feuilly was proving to be an unbelievably valuable ally. They went out the next morning and found them the use of a merchant’s truck. Enjolras offered the gold baubles from her doublet as payment, but Feuilly told them that there were many things just abandoned along the streets, from those who were already fleeing the country.

“Apparently it is harder than ever to leave already,” Feuilly said, rooting through something else they had come home with - fabric and clothing. “The Mendirians do not want word getting out of what happened that is not from their own mouths. If we do not go today, we may lose our chance.”

Enjolras sighed and looked out of the window. “Have you any news of the South?”

“No. It is hard for anybody to get into the city, but we’ve rumors that a smaller force of Mendirians moved into the previous capital. We have no proof, but it would be stupid of them to not send troops there as well.”

“Especially with the majority of our guard being up here…” Enjolras looked over to Grantaire, who was watching quietly from the couch. He had been nearly silent all night, well into the morning. “Feuilly, you seem very knowledgeable. What brings an artist to have such great interest in politics?”

“The politics of our lands impact us all. After leaving Walska, I vowed to never again live in a country with such poor leadership.” The Walskan prime minister had driven the country into the ground, made their money worthless, left half of their people starving. Feuilly had reminded them of that a few nights ago. “Everyone was living in poverty and I lost everyone I cared about, saw children crying in the streets, people tearing each other apart for money - all due to poor leadership. Which is why after my previous master disappeared in Walska, I decided to come to the promised land. Ketor held more opportunities than I could even imagine. The monarchy was good and kind, the economy thriving...it was a true motherland. I never once imagined...so yes. I keep heavily involved with politics because I will never again suffer at the hands of a corrupt system that puts the people last.”

“A better reason than most of those who attempt to climb the ranks,” Enjolras mused. “When we reclaim the throne, and find ourselves in need of trustworthy advisors and diplomats, you may count yourself among the first we find. I could never once repay you for all of this assistance…”

Feuilly’s cheeks turned pink. “I need no such repayment. I believe any true, capable citizen would do the same. But...the offer means more than I can say.”

They unloaded the clothing onto the table. “This was all from a family who left their house abandoned. They were not a rich family but did not want to bring things which would slow them down. The empty house...well. Perhaps it is stealing. But it is better us than them.”

“Of course,” Grantaire finally said. “I assume that we will be disguised. That’s why you’ve brought the clothing?”

“Yes. We will use the carriage to make it seem as if we are merchants travelling across the city with orders of silk. I have seen it happening enough - even with the monarchy fallen, some business must still go on. I shall drive, and the two of you shall hide in the back. We will move out of this area and seek out an exit that is not heavily guarded. There are no walls around our city - surely there is a way for us to get out. From there we can move towards the border.”

Grantaire pushed himself up. “Then use me as your canvas, artist.”

Feuilly pulled some of the clothing out, holding it up to Grantaire. “The father of this family was nearly your size, your highness, and I believe you would fill out his clothing enough to pass.”

He took the offered jacket and looked towards the mirror. “I shall leave my beard long,” Grantaire said. Not that is was LONG, but in the past days, with no chance to shave, his beard had grown enough to cover his chin. It was different from his more usual, cleaner appearance. “But perhaps my hair could be trimmed.”

“To just below the ears,” Enjolras offered. Grantaire looked over, ready to mention that his hair already fell just below his ears. But he noticed that Enjolras was not looking him; she was looking at her own reflection in the window. Her hand was buried in her long braid, which reached down to her waist. That long gone, distant look was back in her eyes. Even feeling the way he was, Grantaire could see that. So he let it go.

Feuilly brought out a small pair of fabric shears and sat Grantaire down. “This might just be enough that no one gives you a second glance. I’ve listened for rumors and no one knows where you are, either of you. I was hoping to find something hinting that you had left the city, but no such luck. Should have started that myself.”

“You’ve done enough, Feuilly,” Enjolras said from across the room, where she was sorting out the clothes.

Grantaire sat still as Feuilly cut his hair, leaving it curling around the top of his ears and a little long over his forehead. The back was shorter and with his beard, Grantaire had to admit that he looked a little older than the man they would be looking for. “Once I’m out of these clothes I think I might be able to go undetected, if I keep my head down and my mouth shut,” he mused. “Enjolras, what do you think?”

He turned around to look at her, and noticed that the her nose seemed a little darker, and she swallowed a little before looking away. “Yes, it looks. Fine....looks fine, Grantaire.”

Feuilly chuckled and Grantaire wasn’t sure why. “I’ll say we keep it as is, then. I would recommend dying it were it not so dark already. Prince Enjolras, on the other hand...we could darken your hair, there are plenty of supplies downstairs. At least, that you didn’t trail all over the basement.”

That made Grantaire chuckle, which was understandably hard to do over the past couple days.

“Cut it off first,” Enjolras said. That drew both of their attention quickly. She turned and held out the end of her braid. It was so heavy that it made a sizeable curve downward before looping back up to the back of her head. “This hair is known throughout the land. Cut it off.”

Grantaire stood and took the scissors from Feuilly, who seemed happy to relinquish them. He thought he understood; there was something intimidating in the way Enjolras spoke. “Sit down, then.”

Enjolras sat before him, and Grantaire undid the braid. After a moment spent shaking it loose, he combed through it with his fingers. Grantaire did think it was very beautiful, honestly, and in a different time may have been thrilled to touch it this way. For now, he just worked his fingers through the curls to make sure he did an even job. “How long do you want it?”

“Just...just get rid of it.” That something intimidating had become something strained and needy.

Grantaire did not want to question anyone who sounded that way. He took the shears in one hand and made a fist of Enjolras’ hair with the other. The blades separated and Grantaire positioned those curls between them. Just below Enjolras’ shoulders, he made the first motions of a cut. The soft sounds of the blades through each strand of sunlight - shkt, shkt, shkt - did not match the way Enjolras’ hair sprung away from the blade back towards her head with each closing of the shears.

In six full closings and opening of those shears, Grantaire’s feet were covered in gold enough to feed an army for a year, and Enjolras’ hair fell no longer to her waist but to just graze her shoulders.

“Do you want to see?”

Enjolras made no sound, but nodded. Her hair bounced freely against the back of her neck, no longer weighed down, and she touched the ends of it. Grantaire kicked his feet free of her discarded hair and took the mirror from the wall. It was about the size of a serving plate and Grantaire had no problem holding it between his hands, just at her eye level.

He watched the way her lips parted just so, then how her eyes became teary. Slowly, Enjolras turned her head this way and that to see all of it. She ran her fingers through her hair and stretched out a lock. It fell back with no sound at all upon release. Then her lower lip wobbled and Grantaire felt a spark of his old self. He set the mirror down and knelt at Enjolras’ feet. Some pieces of her hair had slipped to front, and were flattened beneath his knees. “Are you alright?”

His voice was soft. Her hands hesitated at her shoulders, the cupped around the back of her own neck. Feuilly was behind her, facing away to give them some semblance of privacy in this moment that had somehow become so intimate. 

Enjolras smiled, watery but true. “I am...unbelievably alright.”

 

**~~~**

 

Grantaire had hesitated to stand, but saw nothing more he could do. As long as she was not unhappy over the change, then all that could be done, was done. . He left Enjolras to marvel at her reflection in the mirror while he gathered the remains of her hair and pushed them into a burlap sack Feuilly had found. 

“We’ll set fire to this or throw it in the river,” Feuilly said. “With your clothing as well.”

Grantaire thought that was not a bad idea. They would keep their crowns, he thought, but wasn’t sure if it was a good idea - what if somebody went through their belongings? But then again, what better proof of who they were upon arriving in Peraesea? The crowns would have to remain, wrapped up and hidden among their other belongings.

They looked through the clothes, Grantaire pulling out things he thought he could wear, talking quietly among themselves until Enjolras joined them. 

“I was thinking,” she said quietly. Then she cleared her throat and started again, in a stronger voice. “I was thinking that they will be looking for a man and a woman. Not a man and a younger boy.”

Feuilly watched her thoughtfully. “That is true. It would add to the deception. And this family did have a younger son. I had taken those clothes as well.”

Grantaire had noticed that Feuilly had brought clothes of what looked like every member of the family, but could not fault them - they may need to sell these things to survive until he and Enjolras or one of their parents could reclaim the throne and push things back in the right direction. So he had said nothing.

“Then that is what we shall do,” Enjolras said. Her hand fluttered near her collar. “I know that I am not as...ample as some, but…”

The air was awkward. But not for Feuilly apparently; something had sparked in their eye, recognition. “Here, your highness. Come with me - I believe I have just the answer.”

They disappeared into Feuilly’s bedroom. Grantaire took advantage of whatever they were doing by changing from his fine clothing - now dirty but still fine - into a gray jacket and black trousers, and a simple shirt. His boots he kept on - Feuilly had even brought them shoes, but none of them fit properly. Plus, maybe familiar shoes would offer a modicum of comfort. Even as he dressed, he thought of Enjolras. What has happening with her? She seemed...happy. A sort of happy that was overwhelming. A happiness Grantaire was starting to realize he had never felt. Just from the hair? Between that and everything else Grantaire had seen, he had a feeling that something was going on here that he truly didn’t understand.

Feuilly reappeared and took some of the clothing, then bustled back into their bedroom. Grantaire watched and wondered. And underneath it all, he missed his mother. It was still hard to believe that she wasn’t in her room right now, working, reading, playing the piano. Had his father escaped, or was he now an orphan? Were birds on her head by the castle?

No. Grantaire tried to push those thoughts away; there wasn’t enough wine left for him to let those thoughts leak into his brain. All he could do was get the best revenge he could. Reclaim the throne. Live happily. And make sure that these monsters who did this all got what was coming to them. To do that, he had to live. Find a way out of the city. Find allies. Find an army. And drive all enemies from their shores. There had not been a true war in Ketor OR Elus since he was a teenager, but now that one was here, Grantaire would not shy away from his duties to his family or to his people.

That was another reason he could not let himself wallow in self pity the way he wanted to. There was an entire country of people counting on him. Feuilly had horror stories every day of people being imprisoned and, they feared, tortured. Valorians were fleeing their homeland, scared of what MIGHT happen. People were already dead - they had been killed in front of Grantaire’s own eyes. He had seen the suffering. It was his duty to stop this from happening ever again. To stop it from happening now.

The door behind him opened. Grantaire turned to see Enjolras standing in the doorway, in a deep burgundy outfit that complimented her skin tone in a way that only an artist could truly appreciate. She held her arms up and turned a little bit. There was no sign of her (granted, smaller) chest. In fact, with her slim frame and lack of curves, there was nothing at all to differentiate her from a young man of 15 or 16. “That’s…”

“Amazing,” Enjolras said. “It’s...it’s amazing.”

She crossed to a window, peeking at herself in the reflection as best as she could.

“Lucien.”

Enjolras turned to them once more. “We’ll need false names. I’ll be Lucien.”

Grantaire tilted his head to the side. “Lucien,” he repeated. Enjolras smiled in a pure and unguarded way. This all made her so happy despite their circumstances. “Well, then, Lucien, what shall my name be?”

She leaned against the table, hands dancing over her collar. “I...honestly have no clue. You never had anything else you wished to be called?”

When he answered no, Enjolras looked incredulous. “I’ll think on it. Are we dying your hair?”

“I think it best. Will you pack up what we we have? Feuilly knows the dyes best, so if they will help me…?” Enjolras looked to Feuilly.

They nodded. “It shall be an experiment. And, you know...I was once in the theatre in Walska. I may have something else to help.”

Grantaire noted the way Enjolras warmly took Feuilly’s hand. What had passed between them? He felt a small pang of something that he might call jealousy. “I will gladly accept any help you offer.”

 

**~~~**

 

In the back of the carriage - more a cart with thin walls, really, but it would do - Grantaire marvelled at the change. Even in the dim morning light streaming in through the boards, it was amazing. “All of that with dye and powder?”

“Yes, all of it.” Enjolras’ hair was now a light brown with rich warm tones. Still almost blonde, but such a reach from the molten sunlight Grantaire was used to. But that was not the most extreme change - no, using powders and brushes, Enjolras’ brows had been dyed as well, and thickened. Under the chin, on either side of the nose, and who knew where else, Feuilly had shown Enjolras where to apply darker powders to create a more masculine looking face. It honestly seemed a bit extreme to Grantaire, who hoped that no one got that close to them anyways, but anything to help them hide was appreciated.

And Enjolras seemed so at peace. Even hiding in the back of a cart surrounded by bolts of silk that they would hopefully not have to pretend to know anything about, swords close at their side, wounds still healing, country at war...Enjolras seemed truly at peace.

The carriage bounced along an uneven road, and Grantaire kept an eye out the back. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, which was wrapped with fabric. The handles of both of their swords could be an identifying feature - Grantaire’s was famous in the North, Enjolras’ in the South. Enjolras’ bag held their crowns, also wrapped in fabric, shoved between a change of clothes and some food. They didn’t know where they would be going or for how long, so it was best to stock up. Grantaire had food in his bag as well, and the gold baubles from their previous outfits, just in case they needed something to sell.

Grantaire had attempted to give them to Feuilly - the baubles were pure gold, after all, and could be sold or used as currency themselves. Feuilly had refused them, citing duty and honour to the royal line. But before they left, Grantaire watched Enjolras take half of those baubles and leave them under the pillow on Feuilly’s bed. It seemed the very least they could do, honestly.

From what Grantaire could see, there were people out and about, but no one seemed to be out just to enjoy the nice warm weather. Everyone seemed to be darting from one place to the other, not wanting to remain outside in the sunshine. In fact, it seemed odd to be doing this sort of thing in the morning, with the sun out bright, birds chirping, and not a cloud in the sky. It was not the proper environment for sneaking about. But that sort of gave Grantaire hope. Maybe, if it didn’t feel the right time for sneaking about to him, no one would suspect them.

The group was going farther to the south end of their city in hopes that the borders would not be so guarded. After all of their precautions, they would not be captured by a lazy refusal to travel. Feuilly didn’t want to risk alerting anyone unnecessarily to their presence, so they were left without many updates.

There was a quick stop for Feuilly to eat before they moved on, traveling not through back roads, but openly through the main roads of the city as if they had nothing to hide. Grantaire could not hear much of words over the clattering of the wheels and the horse’s hooves, but he still tried to gather any gossip from the murmurs of conversation he heard from the street. What was going on out there.

At some point when he was nearly straining his neck to look out the cracks in the thin walls of the carriage, Enjolras took his hand. She silently put it in her lap and held it between her palms. For nearly 15 minutes, she said nothing, just held his hand. “Grantaire, I - “

“HALT!” came a deep, loud voice from outside the carriage. Feuilly stopped it suddenly, as if someone were in the path. Grantaire assumed it was. He took his hand back and placed it on his sword as Enjolras did the same. They heard Feuilly stand.

“Move on,” they said bravely. “We’ve nothing here to steal.”

“Then why the carriage?” said another voice, which sounded the way a rich cake tasted, or a fine fur cloak felt. Smooth and warm and comforting. But there was a bite underneath it. Poison in the cake, a blade in the cloak. “If you have nothing, then what is in the carriage?”

“Fabric only - nothing worthy of a man so finely dressed as yourself, my good sir.” Grantaire could hear no sign of falsehood in Feuilly’s voice - their background in the theatre coming through yet again.

“I don’t believe you.” Yet a third voice, clipped. “Let us see, then.”

“My business partner and our apprentice are in there,” Feuilly said, loudly to make sure that they could hear inside. Grantaire applauded their quick thinking. Better this lie than hiding, which would guarantee a struggle once they were found, or attempting a fight to begin with. If these were just regular bandits or thieves, they may get by only through doing as they were told. “They know only Walskan so please take no offense if they cannot speak with you.”

Grantaire moved himself, quickly, to seem as if he were counting out the smaller bolts of fabric while Enjolras stood beside him. The bag with the crowns was at her feet, and her sword leaned against the wall, out of sight. As they heard Feuilly dismount the driver’s seat, Enjolras started up a long spiel in perfect, fluent Walskan. Grantaire watched her in amazement as she pointed and prodded at the silk and strung together words he had never bothered to learn. She could fool anybody, so it was up to him.

The back doors creaked open to sunlight. Feuilly called out in their native tongue and Enjolras responded in kind. Grantaire decided that ‘gruff and quiet’ might save him his skin and just gave a noncommittal grunt. Enjolras moved to the back, empty wall and Grantaire joined her. Why had he never learned Walskan? Ketor, Elus, and Helinor all shared a base language of Antillan, but as one got farther away, it changed. Grantaire had learned an old language suitable for ceremony and reading classic literature, but his parents had always urged him to learn a language of their allies. Now he regretted the cavalier way he had agreed but simply never done it.

A large man - incredibly large in height and girth, nothing but muscle - blocked their view. He had a handsome face to be sure, but there was a cruelness in his gaze that made Grantaire want to push Enjolras behind him. Beside him appeared a tall figure in dark clothing, with waves of inky black hair flopped over one side of his head. He stepped in, and as he did Grantaire noticed the thin heels on his boots, the rich black velvet of his jacket, the glimmering ruby at his throat. Where the other man hinted at cruelty, this man nearly leaked danger. He moved like a cat, like wine from the bottle to the glass. He had a walking stick clenched in his hand with a heavy silver head - one shift of the hand that felt deliberate and it was revealed to be in the the shape of a viper, with long fangs. “All of these silks and nothing for me?” he mused, looking over the fabric first. “I may have to disagree with you there, my freckled friend. I do believe that a good many of these may be exactly what I am looking for.”

Grantaire looked past him to Feuilly, whose face gave nothing away. He wondered how many others were out there, blocking the path. The man in black ghosted over the bolts of fabric until finally coming to meet Grantaire’s gaze. “You speak no Antillan?”

“I’ve told you,” Feuilly said. “They only just joined me here, what, hardly a month ago?”

“Gueulemer!” the man in black said, raising one glove of pure white. “Load all of this!”

“A-all of it!?” Feuilly’s face turning pale under their freckles, and Grantaire could see that the emotion was true. “Please, you - “

“Or I could take your pretty little boy,” he interrupted, looking over Enjolras. “Such a lovely face would make for a wonderful bait. Put you out in danger, let a chivalrous fool come save you, rob him of all he’s worth…would you like to join our organization?”

He reached out and took Enjolras’ chin in his hand. Enjolras set her jaw as the man turned her head one way, then another. His eyes scanned over the hair, the eyes, everything. And then, he stopped. His mouth dropped open into a gentle shape of surprise that instantly made him look younger. He released Enjolras’ chin only to run a finger along that scar. Something dawned in his eyes and his smirk returned. He looked over Enjolras in a way that seemed final, then Grantaire. He took his glove off and pressed the heel of his hand to Enjolras’ forehead. Enjolras seemed almost frozen now, and Grantaire could tell how tense she was. But the man only dragged his hand over her brow, smearing the makeup from her brows.

“We’re going to want the whole cart, boys!” he called out. He pointed to the man Grantaire assumed was Gueulemer, who grabbed Feuilly around the waist. Enjolras was the first to move, launching herself at the man in black. He swung around and pressed the head of his walking stick to her throat.

“Do you know what is in this?” he asked, voice no more than a whisper. “This is pure Elusian sand viper venom.”

Everything froze. Even Feuilly stopped struggling to be free. The Elusian sand viper was the deadliest snake along the coast. Its venom could kill even without the snake when preserved correctly, and it killed in less than a minute. There was no known cure, and even if there was, what could be done in such short a time? “These fangs are not just decoration,” the man said, turning the stick until the silver fangs on top were against Enjolras’ skin. “One incantation and you are dead.

“And we wouldn’t want that now, would we? After all, I know someone who would pay a very high price for a pair of runaway royals, and you’re nothing to me dead. Wrap it all up, boys! We’re taking these little princes to market.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	12. Given

Feuilly had been thrown into the back of the carriage with them, all three bound with magic and in different corners of the carriage. The threat of that poison meant that they would just do as their kidnappers said and figure a way out later. Unfortunately, their kidnappers were not stupid enough to leave them alone in the carriage. The man with the magic powerful enough to bind three people at once remained back there. He was tall, spindly, and looked more spider than man. He was silent, dark in clothing and dark of skin, with a mask covering his eyes and extending in a hook over his nose. It was impossible to tell who he was looking at - the mask had no eye holes and Grantaire could only assume that magic let him see through that as well.

So all was quiet except for the wheels on the street. No plotting, and no answers from the man when Enjolras demanded them. They knew nothing, except that, already, things were out of their control. Grantaire tried to formulate a plan in his mind. So far, three things were known obstacles. First, the man who had bound them and who was back here now, preventing them from even discussing a plan. Second, the poison in the cane, which could kill any of them instantly. And third, their weapons had been confiscated. 

None of these were easily overcome. Even if they had their weapons available, they were still bound. Even if they had their weapons and were still unbound, Feuilly was unarmed and seemed to have no magic. And there was the poison. On top of all of that was that they heard many voices outside while the cart was being stolen, but could not pinpoint the number of people out there, so even if they were all armed and free, they could very likely be stopped before escaping or taking the cane.

It was all overwhelming. Grantaire looked to Feuilly in the corner, who was bleeding at the wrists from pushing against the magic and trying to free themself. In the opposite corner, Enjolras sat with her eyes closed, titling her head this way and that as if trying to determine their location by sound only. And directly across from Grantaire sat the man who was binding them.

The carriage rode for about an hour. Every time there was shouting or another pair of wheels in the street, Grantaire hoped that they were stopping. If they stopped, when this gang of bandits tried to move them to wherever they were going, that would be the ideal time to move. But it did not happen. They seemed to travel across the length of the city.

But finally, the carriage rolled to a stop. All of the sunlight that had been streaming through the slats in the walls had disappeared. They must have been a some sort of stable, or under something. There was a lot of clacking and banging about as the group moved around outside.

The man in the carriage with them did not move until the doors were thrown open. Four men stood before the open doorway. The giant Gueulemer. The man in black. And two others, one who was so skinny that Grantaire could hardly believe he was alive, and another with an honestly jovial expression and cheerful looking clothes. Five, it seemed. Five to outnumber their three.

The man in black stepped forward. “Claquesous, bring them if you’d please. I’d like the small pr...no. Bring me the commoner, I think. Nothing to make a prince behave like a subject in danger.”

Feuilly was brought - or maybe propelled - forward by magic, and nearly crashed to the ground while getting out of the carriage. “Let them walk,” the man in black said as he put the cane to Feuilly’s throat. “There’s nowhere else for them to go.”

Grantaire was the last out of the carriage, walking with Gueulemer behind him. They were in a small carriage house with not only the doors closed but the windows boarded over. He did not at all know what to make of that. The door that they were being lead into, one by one, seemed not to lead outside but into an attached house. 

That did not bode well. 

He pushed at his bonds but the magic held tight. The man who had bound them, Claquesous, coughed once, and suddenly instead of just being bound, Grantaire had no control over his upper body. He could move his legs enough to walk, but that was it. He supposed any movement would be suppressed in such a way. But this Claquesous could not keep them bound forever. And Grantaire was ready for it.

The group moved into the house, through a small, cluttered kitchen that smelled nice. In fact, it smelled homier than Grantaire would have expected, but that was only based off of the people that had brought him here. In front of him, Enjolras was looking around the rooms as they changed from kitchen to sitting room on only a few steps. Clean in here, too, if not full of things - jackets and hats and chests and artwork. An eclectic building, to say the least. There was a thin doorway and the man in black approached it. He noted the knocker, even though it was not a front door. The knocker was a snarling wolf holding a noose from its jaws.

With one gloved hand, the man in black rapped the noose against the door in a pattern of quicks and slows that Grantaire vaguely recognized as a code that village children used to use. The memory of what it could be was lost to the recesses of his mind, but he knew it was familiar.

Then the wolf’s head changed, looking up at the man with eyes that were very much alive. The noose even dangled as it gave a look that could only be disdain. “What could you possibly want, ‘Parnasse?”

The tone of the wolf was exacerbated, and the voice feminine, but Grantaire was more amazed by this magic - it looked highlevel. Each tuft of fur was realistic, the wolf’s face accurate but expressive. 

“Ah ah ah, such attitude from someone when I have brought her a gift.” He chuckled but it was not meant to intimidate - clearly he knew this lady well.

“You cannot call it a gift when you expect me to pay.”

“How do you know I expect you to pay for this, LaLoup?” His voice was smooth and thick as his hair.

“Because you have never GIVEN anything in your life. Fine, fine, anything you say - just bring it up, alright? And hurry - SOME of us have real work to do!” The the wolf froze, back into its original position.

Another laugh. The man in black pushed the door open and lead the way.

 

**~~~**

 

With the cane off of Feuilly’s throat, Enjolras and Grantaire took up spots on either side of them on the landing outside of a heavy door. All but the man in black remained in the hallway to keep watch on them. Grantaire scanned them all over, looking for who may speak more openly to them. He decided on the man in the bright yellow vest with a large smile on his face. “Excuse me,” he said, almost surprised that the magic allowed him speech to begin with. They all turned to him, but he kept his eyes on the man in the yellow. “But would you mind telling us at LEAST where we are?”

“I would,” he said brightly. His jone was joyous to the point of mocking. “I would mind telling you very, very much!”

“Well,” Enjolras huffed. “That’s helpful.”

They fell quiet and Grantaire tried to listen to what was going on in the other room. He had one thought and one thought only - if they could get out of the hands of these bandits, perhaps they stood a chance. Unless this LaLoup was incredibly powerful, they stood a better chance against one person than five. So maybe if they could make it through the exchange? He just didn’t know. He had to see this LaLoup first., to really know. Could they handle her? Was she even alone in there? Everything was so up in the air and after all that had been going on, it was quickly wearing Grantaire down. He had a brief moment of recognition that with the struggles of the day, he had not thought of his mother once; guilt washed over him.

The door creaked open, and each head in the hall turned to see the man in black lean against the frame. “Send in our prize, boys. She wants proof.”

 

**~~~**

 

The girl at the desk - or maybe the girl? She was younger than Grantaire expected - barely let her eyes widen at their arrival. “I cannot be,” she said in her rough voice, standing up and circling her desk. It was only herself, the man in black, Grantaire, Enjolras, and Feuilly, but their binding remained. Grantaire watched her carefully as she wandered around them. “Surely they just look alike. These are not the princes…” she said in awe.. “There is no way YOU stumbled across them, ‘Parnasse.”

“But I did. Look at the little one’s scar. Make up, a hair cut, and dye may change appearance, but you know I can tell. And I bet you more than anything that if you look in their bags, you’ll find their crowns.” The man in black - ‘Parnasse? - said, leaning against the door.

LaLoup walked up to them, watching with curious hazel eyes. She was slight, too slight, with long brown hair that fell in tangled waves, gaunt cheeks, and a tired expression. But Grantaire was also aware that she was very, very pretty, and after a few meals would be a true beauty. “May I see you bags, please?”

“I would love to,” Enjolras said cordially. “But your cohorts still have us bound.”

“Do you see what you’ve done?” LaLoup spat at the man in black. “These may be the very princes we need and now they think I work with _you_. And tell Claquesous to let them go, they aren’t prisoners!”

Grantaire looked at her. “...we are not?”

“Of course not. If you are who this fool claims, then you are welcome guests of mine. If you are not, you are more than free to go.”

The man in black stepped out of the room and their bodies were almost immediately freed. Grantaire rubbed at his wrists and drew up his magic, just in case. He didn’t know what to make of any of this and wanted to be prepared.

Enjolras, however, just calmly opened her bag. “We are indeed the crown princes of Aenorium Valoris,” she said. Grantaire had to wonder if she was too trusting, or if she was just very astute in her judgement of people. She withdrew her own crown and held it up for inspection. “I assume that you are no Mendirian spy. I note an accent, but you would not have us unbound if you were an enemy.”

LaLoup scoffed. “I am from that backwater spattering of states who call themself a country, but I left years ago, when the power hunger took control and started to force their will on everyone. I never suspected that they would come to do the same here…”

She took the crown and inspected it, looking it over. Grantaire saw her look over them, calculating, and definitely eyeing Feuilly, who was probably terrified. She moved closely to him. “If you are indeed Prince Hercule,” LaLoup began, gazing intently at Grantaire’s eyes. “Then what was the name of your childhood dog?”

It struck him as such an odd question that he laughed. A question to test his identity, but one many people could have answered. “My lady, her name was Giselle.”

“And where was she buried?”

That struck him as a bit more odd. He and Bahorel, along with his parents, had been the only ones present to bury his dog after she died only a few years back. “Under the only grasswillow on the castle grounds,” he said warily. “But how would you….”

Then she let out a long, trilling whistle. 

“Heavensbird,” he said, looking to Enjolras. “Lady LaLoup, have you seen - “

“You can call me Éponine,” she said, relaxing into a grin. She extended her hand and shook Grantaire’s, then Enjolras’, and even Feuilly’s. “We’ve been looking for you. That idiot Montparnasse is right - I do have a reward out for you, but not as prisoners. As leaders of the new regime. As help to overthrow these new so-called rulers of our land. As living rallying points to bring a breaking people together.

“Your Highnesses, welcome to the revolution.”

 

**~~~**

 

“I’ve been setting this up for over a year now, honestly,” Éponine said as she lead them not up into the top of the house, but low, underground, into and through a small basement. “Just about the time your wedding was announced, I jumped into action. I knew that there would be an attack now, I knew they would make their move, and I had to be ready.”

“How could you be so positive. Even our intelligence in Mendir, our mole -”

Grantaire was interrupted with a sharp laugh. Éponine tossed one hand in the air. “They knew she was a mole. They’d been feeding her false information.

“Such shock on that pretty face, Prince Enjolras,” she said. “Over what - that they were feeding her untruths, or that we know?”

“A little of both. How do you know?”

“I to have someone on the inside who has just returned with news. I’ll tell you what she knows when we have a meeting. But first, I think we need to get you healed. I’ll bring you all down to our main headquarters, get our healers...and there are a couple people down here you just may want to see.”

Grantaire tried not to get his hopes up - if his father was here, they would have been brought to him right away. But he also thought of the way Éponine knew the Heavensbird call. Perhaps, if he was lucky, a friend was waiting for them.

The staircase they followed even farther down from the basement was thin and sagging. Enjolras tucked closer to Grantaire as they went, and had there been room he would have held her hand if there was any room. “Why do you have all of this down here?”

“This house was a brothel,” Feuilly answered in Éponine’s place. “I read about when they were illegal nearly 100 years ago, and the ones that survived were the ones who went, quite literally, deep underground. It’s fascinating, really. I assume that there are more rooms than we could ever guess down here?”

“Too right,” Éponine said. “And a lot of people. Not everyone lives here, of course, but enough people have been displaced that we’re fuller than I had ever thought we would be. It’s a struggle, we can’t always feed everybody, but...we do what we can.”

Grantaire was torn between relief that a place like this existed, and horror that it was necessary. Not only that, but it had been formed during his father’s rule - this attack had been obvious to others. It had been obvious to civilians and yet his family had done NOTHING to stop it, done nothing to be able to stop it. He felt sick.

At the very bottom of the stairs, Éponine stopped. She pressed her hand to a dark square of wood, and the door did not open. It disappeared.

“Here we are,” she said. “This is our communal living space.”

The room was done in deep reds and purples, once luxurious but now gone to waste, with cots lined up three across and ten down. Thirty cots across the room, which was lined with doors along three walls, nearly each cot with things on it signifying occupation. People lingered near their cots, or that of friends and family. “Anyone who is sick, or families, we try to keep in the rooms that surround us. I’m sure you can guess what _those_ used to be for,” Éponine said. “There’s a dining area to the left. But you can eat once we get you -”

“ENJOLRAS!”

The shrill cry broke through the air. Small footsteps pounded towards them, breaking through the small gatherings of people. In a flurry of ripped tulle and stained chiffon, Lady Cosette came barreling at them as fast as her dainty feet would carry her. Everyone was watching as she threw herself into Enjolras’ arms. “I w-would recognize you anywhere! I knew you were alive, I knew y-you would come, I just knew it!”

Grantaire breathed a sigh of relief that at least one person made it. She was weeping into Enjolras’ arms and they nearly sank to the floor. A flurry of conversation started up as people recognized the name, started to repeat it. People were starting to realize who they were, and that they were there.

Then a clunking on the floor, even and sure. The crowd split one more time. A beat up looking man, with a heavy cast of magic on his leg and regular bandages on his face, came through the opening. He was wearing a guard’s dress uniform that looked like it had been through hell. But he was grinning, large, bright, and unbridled.

Grantaire broke out into a run and met the man halfway, squeezing him tightly and vowing to never, ever let him out of sight again. “You look like shit,” he grumbled into the embrace. “Worse than shit.”

“I’d rather look like shit and live then be a good looking corpse,” Bahorel shot back, clinging as well. They were laughing but Grantaire might as well have been crying. This was something he needed, something that brought some light back into him. Everything may have been going to hell, but if Bahorel was by his side, he might be able to handle it after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	13. Informed

They spent a short time eating and catching up on news - as well as greeting nervous, tired subjects until Bahorel scared them away - while waiting for the healer to return from a supply run. Apparently Bahorel had been with Cosette from nearly the moment he left the fan-maker’s shop, and they had fought long into the night. Grantaire was not surprised to hear that Cosette was in the battle, but was surprised to hear of her magic - song. Bahorel told the story of how she took down six men with one shrill, high note that left one bleeding out of the ears and all of them quite unable to fight. “Even I had to sit down after that,” he said, “and she had warned me to cover my ears.”

“She’s called the Lark at home,” Enjolras said. She was holding Cosette’s hands in her lap and Cosette was leaning against her. It was a sweet closeness that gave Grantaire an odd pang of jealousy. “We usually have a spell to put on our own so it does not affect our allies, when we can convince her father to let her fight.” 

“I hope he’s alright,” Cosette said, worry darkening her gaze.

“Your father is the strongest, bravest, most determined man I’ve ever met,” Enjolras assured her. “I am certain that he is plowing through the Mendirians as we speak to find his way to you.”

That made Grantaire think of his own father. Where was he? If he was dead, surely it would be common knowledge by now. But he just didn’t have it in him to believe the man was alive. It seemed a foolish thing to hope for. But then again, part of him still hoped that maybe his mother was alive, despite seeing her death with his own eyes, having heard from first-hand accounts that her head was rotting on the castle bridge.

Bahorel looked him over carefully. “Grantaire,” he said, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. “I think you should rest. All of you - lay down and just take a moment to rest, until Jehan gets back. You all need to rest.”

Éponine nodded. “That’s right. We have a room in the back we’ve been preparing for you two.”

“You were really hoping that we would show up, weren’t you?” Grantaire asked as he pushed himself to his feet. He was so tired that he couldn’t even imagine arguing against any special treatment.

“No,” she said briskly. “I knew that we would see you eventually. So come on.”

The room they were lead to was large, taking up both sides of one corner. It was done in blacks and reds that had long ago faded into mere ghosts of what they used to be. But it was clean, with a bed that looked comfortable. Éponine showed them a secret panel in the wall that opened to a way to escape in case the rest of the house was compromised, then left them to rest.

Grantaire had no time to even say anything to Enjolras before his head hit the pillow and he was taken over by a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

**~~~**

 

He woke with Enjolras pressed to his side, her injured arm thrown over his chest. She had her face pressed to his neck, and even in sleep her hand was a rough fist in the fabric of his shirt. Grantaire’s arm was trapped under her neck, but he had enough movement to sort of tuck his hand around her shoulders. So he did, sort of unsure as to why. She was one of the only familiar things in his life right now, and he wanted to cling to that as much as he could. Enjolras whined a little at the movement, but let herself wake up as well.

And to Grantaire’s surprise, she did not immediately pull away from him. She rested against his chest and sighed. Enjolras’ voice was still thick with sleep. “How long were we out?”

“No clue. Can’t really tell the time down here.”

“Ugh, don’t say it that way.” That was when she pushed herself up into a sitting position. She reached behind her, then her eyebrows rose. “I’m so used to having to detangle my hair from the sheets and pillows.”

“Never again,” Grantaire said, sitting up as well. As much as they needed the rest, he hoped that no one had let them sleep all day - not when he was so eager to reclaim his crown and his family. “Unless you wanted to - “

“No. I wouldn’t.” She looked over at him, her eyes sleepy, what hair she had mussed, lines in her face from the wrinkles of his shirt. “Grantaire, there’s something I think we should talk about before things get too complicated.”

“Of course. Anything you want.” he was still groggy, but apparently her mind could work the moment she woke, so he would have to try to keep up.

“I...there’s something about me that I don’t really know how to explain. I’m sure you noti - “

A knocking on the door interrupted her. “We could pretend to still be asleep,” he said. “If you want to talk about it.”

She honestly looked relieved. “No, no. It’s probably important. Come in!”

Bahorel was the one to swing the door open. “The healer’s here,” he said. “They want to see you right away, but I said you were sleeping. I just wanted to see if you were awake yet. Which, clearly, you are. I’ll get them, then.”

Enjolras opened her mouth, then closed it again. But it didn’t seem to matter if she was going to speak, because the person who came in next spoke loudly enough for everyone in the room just by the clothes they wore. Sea-foam green robes, cinched at the middle by what looked and smelled like living flowers, with a buzzing that Grantaire could only name as bees coming from somewhere on their person. This healer had long, flowing hair the colour of chestnuts, which was loose down to their waist and curling spectacularly. Grantaire would only say ‘curling’ in that form because their hair seemed to move of its own free will, winding around their arms like ivy or braiding and unbraiding itself. Freckles splattered their face like starlight, green eyes watched from under magnificent lashes, and a long, slim hand fluttered in front of their chest.

The person dropped into a bow. “Your Highnesses,” they said. Another immigrant - unsurprising in this city - who seemed to have an accent, flowing and lilting, from the Northern country of Donz, if Grantaire’s memory served him well. They straightened up and all but floated over to the bed. “My name is Jehan. It is an honour to meet the both of you.”

“The honour is ours,” Enjolras said, holding her hand out for a shake as if they were merchants discussing business. Grantaire had to stifle a laugh when Jehan extended their hand for a kiss instead, hardly looking, as if it were something that happened every day. True to her form, Enjolras kissed their knuckles with class. What could Grantaire do but the same?

“I hear you have injuries that have gone untreated for days,” they said. Their voice was pleasant, breathy, soothing. “Please, let me take a look - I might be able to finish them up for you.”

“Grantaire, you first, if your healing magic is as bad as you say it is,” Enjolras said.

Near the door, Bahorel nodded. “It truly is.”

Grantaire was not shy to strip off his shirt. He turned for Jehan to see, and barely felt them touch it. “Clever, to cover it this way. Dear, will you come here for a second?”

They turned their head towards for the door, and for one bewildering moment Grantaire thought they were referring to Bahorel. But then the man in black - Montparnasse was his name - ducked his head in. Jehan beamed at them, like a ray of light greeting a shadow. “I am in need of your assistance,” they crooned. “If you please.”

Montparnasse strolled into the room and offered the royals a sharp smile. “No hard feelings about kidnapping you, I assume,” he said nonchalantly. “It’s in my nature, I’m afraid. But it all worked out.”

“My love, you cannot go around kidnapping royalty.” 

With his head turned so he could see over his shoulder, Grantaire watched this bizarre couple settle on the bed. “What is our...ah, not a kidnapper going to do?”

“Decay whatever you’ve covered the wound in. Turn around, please.” Jehan bodily turned him with their long hands on his shoulder. “It might feel odd - my sweet one has the ability to decay matter in the way that it would decay naturally, but in the span of seconds. It won’t harm you, it just might feel a little odd. Like a crawling sensation.”

“You have the ability to literally decay a person with your hands,” Enjolras said slowly. “Yet you use the threat of poison.”

“The thing about my power, princey, is that no one believes it until they’ve seen it, and once they’ve seen it, they’re dead.” Montparnasse touched Grantaire’s back, prodding around the edge of the hardened birch tar. And after a moment of pressure, Grantaire did feel something - like a crawling or a crumbling. Enjolras gasped, and Grantaire wondered what she was seeing. From the feeling, it as something he had never experience. And then the pressure of that tar was gone, and his would could breathe.

“Oh,” Jehan said. “It’s a good thing we could find you - this has hardly healed at all. You weren’t lying about your healing, were you? Well, you’ll have a scar, but I can still fix this.”

There was a warming, tingling sensation along his back as Grantaire felt the magic take hold and start to stitch him back together. And there was the always unpleasant feeling of any remaining dirt or infection being pushed out of the wound by Jehan’s magic. It was something he never liked to feel, but soon enough - in less than a minute, which was extraordinary - his wound was healed. Jehan sent a pulsing wave of magic through his body to finish up anything else that had gone untreated. “You’re all set, your highness.”

“Already?”

He turned around, reaching over his shoulder to feel for the wound without any pain at all. Montparnasse laughed and nudged Jehan’s shoulder with his own. “They’re the greatest healer in the world, don’t be so surprised - I’m almost insulted.”

“Don’t take him too seriously,” Jehan said. But they watched him with a fondness that was nearly lost on Grantaire. “Prince Enjolras, if you will…?”

Enjolras pulled her sleeve down the way she had before, pushing her arm out through the collar rather than removing the shirt. Jehan looked at her curiously. “Did you sleep that way?”

“What way?” Jehan threw a thin hand to the black band peeking out from under Enjolras’ shirt, which Grantaire realized must have been the thing that was giving her body that shape. “Oh, ah, yes.”

“It’s not very healthy, honestly. I would recommend sleeping without it from now on. Now let me see this arm…”

Enjolras looked over at Grantaire, and he could see she was a little embarrassed. But she just held her arm out. This time, Grantaire got to watch Montparnasse’s magic in action. He took his long, angular hands and pressed them over the birch tar, which was hard and solid. Black rose in patterns along his hands - it looked as if the black was rising from his very veins. It slowly moved up his hands, from wrists to knuckles to fingertips, where the blackness seemed to seep into the tar. As they all watched, tar started to rot. It crumbled, first around the edges, then larger pieces started to disintegrate from over the wound. Honestly, Grantaire was fascinated - he had never before seen magic like this. Under Montparnasse;s hand, what was there became nothing and Enjolras’ wound was clear for all to see.

“That’s not as bad,” Jehan said. “It looks cleaner and won’t be a problem.”

Under their hands, Enjolras was healed as quickly as Grantaire had been. It was astonishing. Jehan leaned against Montparnasse for a moment. “Éponine was hoping to speak with us all once you were healed. Whenever you’re ready, you can meet us upstairs, alright?”

“Thank you, Jehan,” Enjolras said. “We’ll be up soon.”

They were left all alone, and Grantaire stretched his arms. There was no pain at all as he stretched and rolled his shoulders, and that was a relief. He had gotten used to it, but now that the pain was gone he didn’t know HOW he had just lived with it. Grantaire looked over at Enjolras just as she was tucking her arm back into her shirt, much more fluidly than before.

"Is it uncomfortable?" he asked. Enjolras looked at him in confusion, so he gestured to her torso.

"Oh," she said. She pressed a hand to the flat plane of her chest. She looked unbelievable at the moment, the aesthete in Grantaire noticing how the red of the walls played off of the warm tones in her skin. "No. The way I feel in it...it surpasses any minor physical discomfort. Does...it look alright?"

Grantaire leaned closer to her so he could be quiet. He was feeling something he couldn’t name, just from the way she looked so warm, like a comfortable bed. "I think you look dashing."

The way her face lit up at his carefully chosen compliment was phenomenal. Enjolras leaned forward as well, and Grantaire couldn’t believe that her skin looked so smooth. "Dashing, you say? Thank you. I...didn't get a chance to tell you...."

Her words hung in the air. A lock of hair dangled in front of her face and he gently pushed it behind her ear. "I'm all ears," he said, voice hushed. "What is it?"

"Your beard...it looks nice that way." She raised her hand to his short beard, which was close and tight to his face. Her fingers first, then her palm, touched his jawline and his cheek. He leaned into the pleasant touch.

And then her mouth was on his. It was soft and gentle, a kiss he was not expecting and something he was suddenly addicted to. Her lips were warm and welcoming, but Grantaire was still surprised when he let himself lean into the kiss. He had never even liked the idea of kissing before, but now he was dreading the moment she pulled away. But she did not pull away. 

Enjolras let him kiss her back and even curled her hand around the back of his neck. Their lips, hers as unsure as his, moved against each other in gentle, muted strokes.

When she did pull away, she did not go far. "I..."

"I thought you told me that we would only be friends," Grantaire said, still leaning forward, eyes closed. He felt warm in a way he had never felt before.

"I know," Enjolras muttered. " But...maybe things can change. I...I don't know."

He opened his eyes again as Enjolras pulled away and grabbed her jacket from the floor. She seemed to be doing all she could to look at him again.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked, that warm feeling fading fast.

“No. I shouldn’t have...I just thought that maybe…” She shook her head. “I am so sorry, Grantaire. Let’s go - I don’t want to keep them all waiting.”

And he was left alone, yet again wondering if she was always going to be just beyond his reach.

 

**~~~**

 

Their meeting involved an array of people - both princes, Cosette, Éponine, Jehan, Montparnasse, and a large man with a shaved head that Grantaire thought was extremely familiar. Grantaire sat next to Enjolras and tried not to feel awkward about what had just happened between them. It was so odd - he had never even felt the urge to kiss before, but the idea of kissing Enjolras again was almost overwhelmingly appealing. He tried to think of something else, though, anything else.

Thankfully, Éponine was standing at the other side of the table. “So. Things seem to be changing for us. We know now that both of our princes still live, and they join us today.” She nodded at them. “For their sake, and for everyone in the room, let me go over everything that we know.

“The Medirians in charge have been planning this for a while, for over two years - move in, take control. They wanted retribution for our help in the long ago war with Nalor. They wanted riches. They wanted a reputation as a powerful country who can stand on their own. So we became their target. But how did they do it?

“Bribery. When they heard of the wedding, knew that all of the country would have its eyes turned here, they knew that this was a perfect time. Not only was the wedding a distraction, but a big move made when the whole country and most of the world was watching? That would send the message that they are not to be ignored. This was something WE only learned after the attack, but they have been sending in their own, and hired others to be sent it, as guards, living in the castle, gaining trust, and working to protect the very family they would day attempt to murder.”

Bahorel swore. “Right under my nose the whole time. I take pride in knowing each of my guards well, but clearly it was not enough.”

“They were all hand picked,” she said. “A good many of them, we believe, were taken straight from the stage. Even worse, was the bribery. From what we understand, the wealthiest or most conniving of the Medirians have bribed either officials or private citizens in our neighbouring countries - Helinor, Xalanth, Treil, and Luri, to be exact - to let them pass through and enter our borders. Luri and Xalanth let the boats through their ports, meaning the Mendirians never once had to even approach our coasts.”

“...we were betrayed,” grantaire said. It felt like a crushing weight on his chest. Whether it was by the nobles and policy-makers they knew and trusted, or just the people of a once-allied country, they had been betrayed. Because a few people that lived close by were interested in money or power, his mother had been killed and Grantaire’s entire life had been thrown into shadows.

Enjolras leaned over the table a bit. “And the Ketorian mole…?

“They knew that girl was a mole,” Éponine said. “I guarantee it. The snakes who are running Mendir can sniff out deception because they are nothing BUT deception. It is our common belief that she was being fed false information to send Aenorium Valoris down the wrong path and keep our guards down. They said the coast, and sent just enough boats to make it seem as if all of their invasion efforts would be along the coastline. Meanwhile, they were sneaking in our back door.”

Enjolras swore. “This whole time. We were idiots. All idiots, and now…”

She shook her head. “But I want to know something. Why was none of this information, gotten before the attack, given to the royal family?”

Éponine raised one thick brow, mouth an unimpressed line. “Why would they listen to a little Western girl? I would be turned away at the door.”

“Right, of course you’re right,” Enjolras said. “Forgive me. I forget that a platform is often not given to those who need it the most.”

Éponine shrugged. “That was why i just took matters into my own hands, knowing that when I was needed, I would be here with information, with a place to stay, with healers...I had hoped to have more in the way of troops but I refuse to have any refugees forced to fight. I will deny no one the chance but I would never force them to.”

At that, Grantaire nodded. “I noticed some of the lesser lords and their families downstairs,” he said. “Rich and powerful but never had to fight for it, never had a child sent to war.”

The bald man cleared his throat. “But they are all fond of you, your highness,” he said, and Grantaire KNEW that he had met the man, but he couldn’t name where. “That is one reason we were so determined to find you or your family - the people will rally behind you. Even people who have never had to fight before...we believe they will for you.”

“Especially with the state of things,” Jehan added. “Soon it will be even illegal to raise your eye from the ground while crossing the street. Things are rough up there, my princes. Young men are being conscripted at guards, which is wrong AND sexist. Taxes are higher than ever and many people are forced to close businesses because they cannot afford to have them. But without the income, they lose everything. Marriages are being denied, people are being jailed for such minor things, with no trials, that private houses are being turned into prison. No one knows who to trust and throw each other to the Wolves for just a few more days of freedom.”

“And they’re not being clever,” Montparnasse added. “There’s a police force out there named the Wolves, who are brutal in a way I could only hope to be. Killing children for stealing, attacking anyone they think is pretty and stealing them away, robbing anyone they want blind and claiming that everything belongs in the treasury then going out to buy prostitutes for a night and enough brandy to kill a horse.”

This time, Grantaire was the one to swear. This was all too much. “I cannot let my people suffer so. What is our plan?”

“YOU are resting,” Bahorel said.

Cosette nodded. “You two were injured, have been through a lot. Everyone here gets a chance to rest before work, and that goes for you. I don’t want to argue with you, so just...please. Take at least today.”

“But - “ Grantaire began.

“I can’t - “ Enjolras started.

Holding her chin high, Cosette stood. “I will not hear any of this. Take today to rest. Talk to your nervous people. Soothe frayed nerves. But I barely want to see either of you stand today, much less do anything hard. Until this time tomorrow I will have you do nothing, do you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” they said in unison.

Éponine nodded and rolled her shoulders.”I am also creating a team to go to the palace and remove the queen’s head.”

Grantaire’s breath caught in his throat. Despite the weird feeling between them, Enjolras took his hand; he was so grateful. “I...would like that.

“She and my father had always planned a burial at sea,” he said weakly.

“Then we will do that,” Enjolras said. No one dared say anything different. “Bring her back and we will do just that. She will have her funeral and be honoured the way she should have been to begin with.”

A strangled, “thank you” was all Grantaire could get out. He went through the rest of the meeting in a daze, listening to Enjolras agree to write a speech for the people of the rebellion, Cosette agree to head the Southern outreach part of this group, Montparnasse reluctantly agree to do reconnaissance, Bahorel agree to oversee training for those who wished to fight. Just because everyone else was doing something, Grantaire agreed to help Bahorel with the training - which he needed, honestly, with all of his injuries that even the magic was having a hard time healing.

He still felt in a daze when the meeting ended, but left with the others. Quietly he ate dinner in the dining hall with everyone else, and he spoke to the citizens that approached him. But he felt so distant from it all, as if he were watching from far above himself and the rest of the scene.

 

**~~~**

 

When bedtime came, Enjolras insisted on sleeping on two empty cots that were moved near Bahorel and Cosette’s out in the main room. Grantaire did not fight her, but even when he was sandwiched between her and Bahorel, listening to his country sleep around him, sleep did not come easily for him. He mainly lay on his back looking at the dark of the ceiling and just. Existing.

He was vaguely aware of people moving in and out as watch shifts changed and teams that were just exploring the city at night came home and left again. It was a smooth operation that seemed so easily set up without even his knowledge. But right now, that didn’t really matter to him. He really wanted a drink, though - it had been way too long since his last.

Just when Grantaire thought that he may have been been slipping off, there was a ruckus near the stairs. He sat up, aware enough to grab his sword - which Jehan had made Montparnasse return.

“You shouldn’t wake her up!” said a soft voice coming from a roundish person once the door was open and a little light leaked into the room. “She will learn soon enough and need to rest! We have people on the trail, looking for a way to save her, right?”

Another voice responded, the bald man from the meeting. “Yes, but don’t you think Prince Enjolras would want to hear?”

“Hear what?” Grantaire asked. He wasn’t sitting too far from them, and swung himself out of bed to go see what was going on.

The bald man sighed in relief. “Prince Hercule, I - “

“Pickles.” It came out of nowhere, but Grantaire has suddenly remembered where he knew the bald man from. 

“What? Oh!” He smiled sheepishly. “Yes, we met at the festival. A good number of us were stationed there just in case, and I happened to be a pickle salesman. I had hoped that the last time we spoke would have been the last. You were never meant to need us, you highness.”

“Well...things change, I suppose.” He scratched at his beard a little. “What was it that Enjolras should hear?”

The bald man sighed heavily. “I...our spies saw that a group of prisoners were brought into the castle dungeons this night,” he said. “And among that number was Queen Yseult. She was injured, she was scared and wearing the same dress as the day of the festival, but she was alive, and she was captured.”

Grantaire knew that this was up to him but the sour feeling in his stomach wanted to pass this information onto someone else, let them think about how that woman had survived but his own mother was dead, let them decide if Enjolras should know this now or leave it for the morning, let them stay up all night.

But he just squared his shoulders. “I will wake her. She would want to know.”

Enjolras woke slowly under Grantaire’s gentle touches to her shoulder. “Enj,” he said, not even aware of shortening her name. He just said it. “Enj, wake up. Something’s happened…”

She blinked sleepily, pushing herself up on her elbow, then into a sitting position. “What’s wrong?” she murmured. “What happened?”

Well, Grantaire didn’t want to delay. He took a deep breath and sat on the side of Enjolras’ cot in the dark. “It’s...your mother is alive,” he started softly. “But she’s been captured and is currently in the castle dungeons.”

Enjolras looked at him, ut he could not see her expression in the shadows. “I...she lives?”

“She lives.”

“That...is a relief,” she said. And then she leaned forward to wrap her arms around Grantaire. “May I?”

“Of course.” Grantaire had some sort of idea that Enjolras was in turmoil over this for more than on reason. He embraced her, nose pressed into her dyed hair. Even if things were strange between them and he didn’t feel all there, he could comfort her. He just rocked her gently.  
“How do I feel over this?” she whispered, voice strained.

“I wish I could tell you,” he said.

“I am a monster to not be thrilled over her survival.”

“You are no such thing.”

Enjolras sighed against him. “There are things you do not know, about how I feel, and why, and...but she is my mother. I should be happy that she lives, and I am, but…”

Grantaire clutched her tighter against his chest, wishing he could see into her head. He wish he had an answer for her. He wish he had anything for her, or even for himself. After all, Grantaire was nothing but destroyed that someone so cold had lived when his own mother, warm and loving, had been stolen from them. But of course Enjolras would have complicated feelings - her relationship with her mother was complicated. “I don’t think you are a monster. Just...let yourself feel. Maybe process. Think. I don’t know….just. I thought you would want to know right away.”

“You were right, thank you. I just wish...I don’t know what I wish. When we reclaim her, maybe things will be easier.”

“Maybe. I am sure that there will be something in the works by sunrise.” She was already talking about rescuing Queen Yseult, yet she thought herself a monster. “Will you sleep?”

“No.”

“I already am not. Come into our room,” he said. “If we are to be awake, let us be awake together.” 

Enjolras pulled away from him. “Alright. That sounds...better than sitting here worried about waking others at least.”

Grantaire had to agree with that. He stood up and nodded to the bald man, who understood the dismissal. At ;east helping his spouse was helping him to raise his head from the fog that had surrounded him. He was already feeling much more himself. Did he feel as if he was putting more effort into whatever they were than Enjolras was? No. And if he was...well, so what? Surely, with things going as they were, their positions would be switched yet again any time now. So Grantaire just took Enjolras’ hand and led her through the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I was excited to introduce Jehan here, as they are the light of my life.


	14. Intimacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Semi-questionable coping ahead! Without spoiling too much, there is some definite kissing in this chapter and since this story does center on a person on the ace spectrum, I just wanted to give a little warning. The physical stuff isn't super graphic and is pretty contained between conversation, so if you want to skip that bit I tried to make it as easy as possible!

“It’s overwhelming,” she said, sitting in their room. There was one candle lit on the bedside table, in a candle stick shaped like a goddess of beauty and passion from long, long ago. Grantaire sat next to her, holding her hand. There was the grieving that he had done for his mother, was still doing, but this was different - grieving for a mother that was not what a mother should be, while she was still alive. He didn’t know what to do, where his place was here. So he just held Enjolras’ hand. “It all feels...broken. My mother is...Grantaire, you must believe me when I say that my mother is a monster beyond what you know. She is...she is a terror and if I am being honest, I...I hope to never see her again.

“But she is captured by the enemy. She must be freed. And then...then she will be here and I will be under her thumb again.”

Enjolras lay down then, on her side, and curled an arm over her head. With her face hidden, she muttered. “I don’t know if I truly feel badly that she’s even captured. But I feel disgusting for...for not feeling badly. I should be horrified that she’s captured. But I just...I don’t. Not the way I should. Am I...stunted? Am I a monster?”

Grantaire’s heart snapped in half. He lay down and wrapped one arm tightly around her. “No. You are not. She was cruel to you, Enjolras. She treated you poorly in ways I do not yet understand. I think that you have every right to still feel negatively about her even if she’s captured. I...can’t imagine having a mother who speaks the way she spoke to you, about you...and I know it goes deeper.” Enjolras was clearly suffering in a way Grantaire wasn’t sure he grasped. Or maybe grasped too well. But he didn’t know - that summer was a blur of forgotten memories and long, warm nights. “You can’t just change your feelings. If you feel that you shouldn’t express them publicly, express them to me, maybe?”

It was actually something Bahorel had said to Grantaire once. Not even about himself, but about Bijoux. That horse knew every single thing Grantaire didn’t want another human being to know but could not keep inside longer. He knew that it might be difficult for Enjolras to express herself to him, but they WERE married. She would have to try and trust him one day, right?

“Maybe,” she whispered. 

Grantaire coaxed her face upwards, to look at him. She looked so sad...but also so angry. It burned in her eyes underneath that sorrow. Wanting to soothe her in the way no one had been able to soothe him, Grantaire bent his head down and kissed her brow. “Is that alright?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, sliding an arm around him. “I...hope I did not offend you earlier when I stopped, and...Grantaire, this is a very confusing time for me. I don’t know. Anything. I am not used to knowing nothing, and I am confused.”

“It’s a trying time. I feel as if I know nothing as well.” Grantaire closed his eyes and pressed their foreheads together. She did not move away.

“Between the war, and my mother, and and...now her capture...” Grantaire swore she trembled and pressed closer to her. Her hand fisted in the back of his shirt. “And you. Grantaire, you make me. Feel things. Make my heart beat, and my palms sweat, and I thought I was...past all of that. I didn’t think a person could make me feel warm with just a look. And the scary part is, I like the feeling! I like the things you do to me just by brushing my knuckles with your hand. I like...”

Grantaire opened his eyes then, seeing that her own were closed. But her expression was tense. “You...are you saying that perhaps - ?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying.” 

“Then don’t say anything.”

Until Enjolras, Grantaire had never kissed anybody. He had never wanted to kiss anybody. The idea, while not disgusting, had never been appealing. His friends talked of quick kisses, hands under skirts, sexual conquests through the city and the land, and Grantaire would play with them, pretend for them. But he never saw the appeal.

Now, with Enjolras warm against him and her breath on his cheek, with Enjolras admitting that he made her feel things, the same things he felt for her, with her just a hair away, he thought maybe he understood. Not that intimacy was suddenly appealing, not that he thought he would ever be like some of the others, bedding anyone who came by and living for the next moment of nudity. It was nothing like that. Enjolras had not woken him to appeal. Enjolras _was_ the appeal. Enjolras was the desire, the race, the finish line, the prize. Enjolras was the kiss herself.

So when their lips touched, his world was gone. He moved softly, letting her pull away. But she didn’t. Enjolras intensified the kiss, angling her face to him, keeping her body against his, holding him tightly. She wormed her arm out from underneath her to cup the side of his throat. His hand fell flat against the small of her back, the softness of her night shirt, the heat from her skin.

He didn’t know what he was doing, and didn’t think that she did either. But he knew that the warmth was everything he could possibly want in this impossible moment, her mouth on his, her chest against him. Grantaire smoothed his hand up her spine, and her body twitched, just a little. Her mouth fell open, and instead of letting things stop, Grantaire opened his mouth as well. His tongue gently brushed her bottom lip for just a moment, and he thought that maybe that wasn’t for him. 

The kiss did not stop, however, other than a pause for a breath. Enjolras pulled him down, turning a little, leaving him a little bit on top of her, just barely leaning over her. That freed his arm a little bit and let his bury his fingers in that hair he longed to touch. It was soft, nearly soft as her skin.

“Stop,” she whispered, gently pulling his hand away. “Keep kissing me, please, but don’t...don’t touch my hair.”

There was something in her voice he had never heard before. A hint of fear. Like she didn’t know how he would react to being told ‘no.’ A sour feeling brewed in his stomach, the same on that her mother brought out in him. So Grantaire whispered “anything you say,” before capturing her in a kiss again. His hand remained obediently on her shoulder after that.

She let her hand open, gripped his shoulder blade to hold him above her. They kissed until they ran out of breath, until they could no longer survive off of each other and small gasps of air stolen from between their lips. Grantaire remained as he was, not even half way on top of her, as they took long, filling breaths. His heart was pounding, his chest was heaving.

“Enjolras, I...like you very, very much,” he said, unable to stop the words. “Every day, I think I like you more.”

“Isn’t it terrifying?” she asked, eyes still closed, hands still on his back. “I think I like you too, and that’s...not for right now. With everything going on, Grantaire, with our country in shambles, our people suffering, our parents scattered, dying, dead...how can something like this matter? How can we BE anything?”

Grantaire looked at the way her collarbone dipped into her shirt. Even that looked comforting. She seemed much more relaxed now, but Grantaire thought she could use a little joke. “What do you mean be anything? We’re already married, what more can we be?”

“Ha ha,” she said dryly, opening her eyes and dropping her arms from around him. “You know what I mean. Now isn’t the time for...this. For us to become more.”

Grantaire thought about that a little bit. “But...you enjoyed the ah. Kissing?”

“Much more than I thought I could.”

“Me too,” he admitted. Rolling a little more to his side, Grantaire propped himself up on his elbow. “So I am thinking that...in our lives, everything is an ordeal. It was even before the coup, even before our country was overrun. I’m sure you agree. Being a prince, everything from the colour we wear to a minor illness is a major...thing, I suppose. A major thing.”

“It certainly is,” she said. “Where are you going with this?”

“Always right to the point. Where I am going is that...there are very few chances for you and I to do things just for ourselves. Just to keep our stress levels down. For comfort. So I think that if once in awhile, we kissed without being, as you put it, anything. Well. Who could blame us? I would not deny you the comfort in time such as these.”

Enjolras watched him carefully. There were so many emotions, thoughts, and worries in her eyes that he couldn’t begin to name them. “You find it a comfort.”

A rather simple statement, and not really an answer to his proposition. “I do. You. Well. When we’re not arguing, you have become the greatest comfort I have.”

Enjolras wrapped her arms around him again, pulling him down to press against him. “Then. Maybe it doesn’t need to be a life changing thing. As you said, we already married, and I...am not ready for anything. But. I would like it if tonight was not the last time we kissed.”

“So would I.” Grantaire smiled gently, and her shy return made his heart melt. “So. How about a kiss is nothing more than a kiss. First from our country and our visible positions, then now in this small bunker, nothing has ever truly been just ours. These kisses can be the one thing we have for ourselves.”

It was needed. There was so much sacrifice now, there would be so much more sacrifice. So if they wanted to steal a few moments of soothing affection with no strings attached, what was stopping them? Everyone assumed they were doing so already.

“I think that sounds nice,” Enjolras said. “And may I ask you for one more thing?”

“Anything,” he said, though he had given her absolutely nothing he wasn’t benefitting from as well.

“In our time alone, and especially when we’re...as we are now…” She took a breath through her nose, then drew his head down unto her lips nearly touched his ear. “Will you call me Lucien still?”

Grantaire turned his face until their cheeks met. “Lucien,” he muttered against her skin, and she seemed, again, to shudder. “Of course. You will be Lucien to me.”

“Come here,” she said, and she kissed him anew. Grantaire tucked her under him a little more securely and let it happen. There was very little he could do for this withdrawn, scared person, and very little she could do for him. He suspected that Enjolras needed someone more than she knew, someone she could trust openly. And maybe Grantaire needed the same thing. If this was all he could give to her, if she liked him the way he liked her, if this meant an oasis in a sea of uncertainty...then he would be happy to never leave this bed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	15. Recover

At the meeting held the next morning, Grantaire noticed the way Enjolras stayed close to him, sitting close enough to let their shoulders bump a little. They both looked exhausted, and grim faces around the table reminded him that sleep would have eluded all members of this council. There was no word from the team that had gone out to fetch his mother’s head, but Éponine had some more information about what had woken them all last night.

“With the news of Queen Yseult’s capture, I believe that we need to do more reconnaissance. More intelligence has come in that while she was captured, it was up North, and they are in the process of bringing her back to the castle. As far as we know, she was alone when captured and there are no signs of the kings. When she was seen, our operatives were vastly outnumbered by the guards with her and did not want to risk her life in an attack. So today, I want to send out two teams - one to the North, to cut them off and retrieve the queen. The other, more as a distraction, to go to the South, gather information, and hopefully draw eyes away from the North,” Éponine said, rolling her shoulders. Cosette pushed a cup of something warm to her, urging her to take a drink.

“Then each of us will take one,” Grantaire said. He would go North if it made Enjolras more comfortable, even. Grantaire didn’t care where he went - it might feel nice to just get out and be doing something after so many days of inactivity. “We want to be out and help.”

“Forgive me, but like hell you are,” Bahorel said. The bandages were off of his face now - for the wounds to still be healing, he must have been half dead when they got to this place. With a pang of guilt, Grantaire realized that he had been so wrapped up in everything else that he never asked. He made a mental note to ask about it. “There’s a bounty out for you. If you’re caught, you’ll be killed.”

“Claquesous,” Montparnasse offered in a bored face. He looked up from where he was inspecting his nails. “For the right price, he can go with one team and keep them disguised.”

“And what price is that?” Éponine said, obviously just humoring him - Montparnasse would tell anyone that would listen, and most people that wouldn’t, about how Éponine had refused to pay him what he was due for bringing in Enjolras and Grantaire.

“The price of helping his country,” Jehan said, sliding their soft hand into Montparnasse’s angular one. “Right, darling?”

Montparnasse opened his mouth, then closed it. “I. You’ll have to ask HIM then - I don’t deal in favours.”

“We will.” Éponine smiled, seemingly just to bother Montparnasse. “Thank you, apple of my eye. But only one group will benefit from his magic - it won’t stretch all the way down the coastline.”

“Then Grantaire will have to be careful in the South,” Enjolras said, setting her hands on the table. She leaned forward a little bit and the way she looked poised and in control warmed Grantaire’s cheeks.“I must go to the North - to rescue my mother, the party must include me.”

That sort of surprised Grantaire after her reaction last night Maybe she was trying to hide how she felt from the others. Maybe she was trying to change how she felt. But he saw that Cosette was giving Enjolras the same bewildered expression that he was. Strange.

“They might be expecting you,” said the bald pickle man, who Grantaire finally learned was called Bossuet. “It could even be a trap. Even disguised, I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

Jehan frowned, long fingers twirling in their hair and eyes shining. “They are our princes, would it not do a world of good for our people to know that they are out there fighting?”

“Thank you, Jehan,” Grantaire said. “Listen - I know that I personally have been trained in battle, but magically and physically, as well as strategy, statistics, warfare...I am not a delicate flower to be protected and neither is Enjolras. We have both seen the battlefield and come out on the other side.”

“When you could be who you are,” Montparnasse said, waving his hand nonchalantly in the air. “With your armor and your banners and your glory it’s different than sneaking in the shadows and being discrete.”

Éponine looked over the table, then trained her eye on Grantaire and Enjolras. “You both wish to go?” They nodded. “Then you are each in charge of your mission. Choose two people each for your teams and we ride out at sunset. Who goes where and does what - it’s up to you. Meeting adjourned.”

 

**~~~**

 

“Of course I want you to come, Bahorel,” Grantaire found himself saying about an hour later. “But you’re still healing and I won’t risk it.”

Bahorel sighed and sagged against his cot. “After failing in my duty so many times I was hoping to be able to redeem myself in this mission, Grantaire.”

“You’ll have plenty of chances, I’m sure. For now, I just want you to rest. What were Jehan’s orders for you?”

“...to rest.”

Grantaire gave him a grin. After what had happened to Bahorel - thrust through the chest with a sword, caught in an explosion and his leg snapped in half before Cosette returned to him with the rebel forces - he NEEDED the rest. No wonder he was still healing. “Well, there you go.”

From behind Grantaire, another voice piped up. “I have to agree with the prince, Captain,” Feuilly said, coming around with a rolled up piece of fabric. “You can hardly walk for wobbling, I’ve seen.”

They sat down next to Grantaire and handed him the fabric. “I’ve done a small map of the South for you, your highness. Just to keep with your team. I’ve done everything from here to top part of the Adal mountains, just in case you need to venture farther than you think, or something happens.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire said, rolling the fabric out and taking a look over it. The map was detailed, clearly labeled, and he would be glad to bring it with them. ”Thank you. You’ve done this just in the past hour?”

“Yes, and once for Prince Enjolras as well. Better to be prepared,” they said.

“Of course. We’ll keep them.” He carefully rolled it back up and tied a thin strip of leather around it. “Are you staying down here or going back to your home?”

Feuilly fidgeted with their fingers. “I think I’m going to stay here. I can’t stand what the Mendirians are turning our country into and want to do what I can to protect it. Anyways, if my master finds out I stole all of that silk...well, there’s really no chance of going back. I made my choice when we left that I was done with that life, I think.”

Grantaire felt a pang of guilt; that seemed to be happening a lot lately. “When we win, you can go back. You can run your own shop - this map alone is art.”

They turned pink over their freckles. “Thank you.”

“Will you do me a favour, though?” he asked. “Keep an eye on Bahorel while I’m gone? He’s known for not following orders and doing things to put himself in danger.”

“Excuse me,” Bahorel said, squaring his shoulders. “That sounds more like a description of yourself.”

Grantaire just rolled his eyes. Feuilly looked over to Bahorel and smiled. “Well, you are twice my size, but it looks like you’re in my charge.”

Bahorel sighed over-dramatically and agreed, which made them both laugh. Honestly, Grantaire knew Bahorel and that he was likely to go chasing after them if no one was watching or distracting him. Not that Grantaire could blame him - it was what he would do, too. But Grantaire didn’t want to be worried about him while they were out there. Especially after last night, it would be hard enough having Enjolras fighting all the way across the city. But such was their duty. He hauled himself up and excused himself from the conversation - he needed to find out who he _did_ want to bring on this mission.

 

**~~~**

 

Under Éponine’s suggestion, Grantaire had picked a team he thought would be suitable. First, with his lessened healing ability, a healer. Not Jehan - Grantaire hadn’t planned on asking them, but when he even went to them to ask who they thought would be best, Montparnasse had hissed at him to ‘not even think about it.’ Grantaire was not so sure about that guy. 

But Jehan had told him to ask Joly, who Grantaire found out was the man he had seen talking to Bossuet just last night (even though it seemed as if that had been weeks ago). He was average height, with a round body and face - even his bobbed hair seemed round. Grantaire took a liking to him immediately. Jehan introduced them easily, and Grantaire took their suggestion of his addition to their group. 

The other choice was easy. “Éponine,” he said, strolling up to her in the dining room. “Do you fight?”

“I do.”

Nothing else. Grantaire put a hand on his hip. “Will you?”

“With you?” She looked him over, then offered a small, brief smile. “Alright. Only because I haven’t been out in too long. I want a fresh look at it out there.”

He nodded, happy to have her coming. It was clear there was a danger in her, a sharpness, and he wanted to have her by his side. Especially since she was the leader of this whole thing - Grantaire wanted to be on good terms with all of his allies.

“Is it all as bad as everyone says?” he asked.

Éponine nodded. “It really is. Children are being jailed and, we fear, executed. If nobles are found, they are being rounded up for - as rumors say - mass public executions. There are no judges, just armed guards and jails. If they catch you, you are guilty of anything they say. Businesses raided, homes destroyed...it’s all in the name of ‘funds’ by greedy, greedy people. The Mendirian leaders were once doing what they could for their family , at first - keeping children alive, five children, barely able to dress their little girls...trying to survive, trying not to starve. And then they took it farther, both running for local offices, rising up in the ranks.

“After that, I don’t know what happened. Something snapped in them and they became cruel, money-hungry, eyes only for gold and silver. As soon as they had a little, they wanted more and more. Money, power, prestige...it’s so different from how things used to be.”

She sounded so morose. Grantaire looked up at the ceiling, then back to her. “You lived in Mendir, or whatever it used to be, for your entire life before coming here, yes? Did you know any of these people?”

“No,” she said cavalierly.

“You just speak as if you perhaps knew them personally,” he said with a shrug.

“It’s just some things that are widely known over there.” Éponine took a long drink before setting her wooden cup down. “I will go with you, Prince Hercule.”

“You can just call me Grantaire.”

That made her smile again. It was rough around the edges, but a very nice smile. Grantaire had a feeling there was much more to Éponine than was apparent. But that was true for all of them, he supposed.

 

**~~~**

 

Grantaire rode out first with Éponine and Joly. They took horses, which Grantaire questioned, but Éponine seemed to think that it was fine - she said that in the past week, people on horses had become common. It was easier to escape on horseback than turn a whole cart around. He had bid goodbye to Enjolras and her team - Bossuet and woman named Chetta, who Grantaire remembered from the festival, along with the silent Claquesous - and donned a cloak with a hood that would be kept pulled over his head.

The city was not silent, at least not in the southern areas. These were always the poorer areas, where things were more easy-going. Grantaire had spent quite some time on a few of these streets, but not the area they chose to ride through. As Éponine said was true, there were a good many people out and about on horseback. Apparently she was well known, so she stopped a few times and spoke with people. Grantaire thought that was clever - in his city, there was a sense of camaraderie, where people knew that there was no such thing as a quick trip out. People always wanted to talk. This was an easy way to help them keep their cover.

And honestly, all in all it was a simply, easy trip. Grantaire mostly stayed in the back, letting Éponine do the talking and just retaining information. That became difficult when they passed people being jailed, however, and a few times Éponine had to slow to ride beside him and stop him from interfering. “We won’t risk capture this way - wait, work, and we can save them all.”

It pained Grantaire to admit that she was right. But he DID stop at one group of children and pass them some of the food that the group had brought in case of emergency.

The ride was honestly so calm that Grantaire found himself chatting with Joly. 

“We’ve been here since the beginning - Bossuet, Musichetta, and I. Just after we married, in fact,” Joly said. “Bossuet and I, we’ve always had our eyes on justice and righting wrongs, and Chetta? Well, she wouldn’t let us do anything like this alone.”

“...all three of you are married?” Grantaire was a pretty open minded man, but that was something he had never heard of. Marriages between three people?

“Well, not legally, it’s not a legal thing we could do, there are no laws protecting it or us as a trio.” Joly said. He held up his left hand. “But we had a ceremony at Chetta’s temple and took vows, we have rings.”

Grantaire squared his shoulders. “It’s legal now,” he said. What harm did it do if they loved each other and were already married in the eyes of their religion? “By my word, your marriage is now legal under the gaze of Aenorium Valoris. When this all is settled, I will get you everything you need and write my will into law.”

Joly watched him with a shocked face. “Your Highness…” he nearly whispered. “That is...u-unbelievable generosity! That you would do that, is...is all of the proof we need that you must be raised back up to the throne. I will be honoured to call you king.”

“Thank you. But I would like to consider us friends, too. No need for ceremony.”

“Of course,” Joly said. But they could not hide the way that everything from their expression to their posture exuded happiness.

 

**~~~**

 

It was honestly suspicious that nothing stopped them from leaving the city. “Security has always been lax around here,” Grantaire said as the tall buildings and houses gave way to larger yards and more cottages. “But I wouldn’t think that they wouldn’t have border patrols down here…”

“We don’t know their numbers yet, so maybe they have to concentrate their efforts elsewhere. Either way, it looks good for us. I don’t feel anything off, but everyone keep an eye out,” Éponine said.

Out here, it was quieter. People milled around their yards or small gardens outside, and all three of them waved to anyone who waved to them. Joly had a casual conversation with someone they met on the road, and as they went, Grantaire’s throughs turned to Enjolras. How was she doing? Her team was in more danger, but Claquesous was supposedly disguising them. Grantaire wondered how. Queen Yseult would probably think them another troupe of bandits coming to steal her away again until she saw Enjolras’ face.

Through here, leading to the Adal mountains the land was less green and more brown, sandy, dusty. There were spurts of trees but as they got farther from the city and the surrounding area, there were more outcroppings of tan and white rocks than plants.

The dusty sand and a breeze meant that their tracks were rather quickly blown over, but also any other tracks indicating an ambush waiting behind the rocks. They went carefully, slowly but not too slowly, just seeming as if they were on a trip. There were beaches down this way, but not much else along this path until the next big city at the base of the mountains. 

They stopped for a quick bite to eat and for the horses to rest. Grantaire chatted with Joly and Éponine, but he was also wondering what had happened to Bijoux. A good many people would have hoped that their beloved horse was not being ridden by enemy forces’ Grantaire hoped she was. Anything was preferable to her being dead. 

About an hour after they picked back up the journey, something in the distance caught Grantaire’s eye. It was a regal purple, flapping in the wind. Grantaire remembered that purple, the silver trim, the thickness. It was no flag, no banner, no sign of an approaching army.

Grantaire drove his heels into his horse and urged his horse into a gallop. He heard Éponine shouting after him, but he didn’t care. As he reached the purple fabric, which was caught in a small crevasse between two large stones, he nearly tumbled off of his horse. Grantaire grabbed the fabric, yanked it free, pressed it to his face. He was crying, tears trailing over his cheeks, shoulders shaking. He just stood there, crying into the dirty fabric.

Horses approached behind him, and he heard the other two dismount. One of them approached him, and a pudgy hand landed on his shoulder. “Prince Hercule,” Joly said, voice stable and sympathetic. “What is it?”

“This is my f-father’s cloak,” he managed to choke out. “He was wearing thi on the d-day of the attack.” He didn’t know why he was crying - this cloak meant nothing. His father could be alive and cloakless just as easily as he could be dead and cloakless. But this was a sign that his father - maybe - had been this way, that he had been through here. It just pulled at him in a raw, pained way that brought all of his emotions bubbling to the surface. 

Joly slipped an arm around him, trying to bring comfort. “Perhaps he’s made it to the mountains - there are a good many of us who think that going South to meet the remainder of the Elusian army would be a good plan. King Heitor was always a clever man. Maybe he had the same idea.”

Éponine approached from the other side. “The cloak doesn’t look torn. I would say it was taken off, not ripped off in battle.”

But Grantaire couldn’t even think about what this meant. He just clung to this last remaining shred of his family and cried.

They scoured the area. Once Grantaire was calm, they went over that section of land inch by inch, grain by grain. But there was nothing. They travelled until dinner, moving until the mountains became clear in the distance.

No one wanted to be the one to tell Grantaire that they should turn around. He knew that. But he also knew that they should go back. They should gather a group, move out together, travel farther than they would get in a night. Make it a true mission. 

Going home still felt like giving up.

When the sun set, however, he knew that it was pointless to keep going with no food, dwindling water, and tired horses. “Let’s go home.”

“Are you sure?” Éponine asked, which Grantaire appreciated.

“”Yes. Let’s go.”

Grantaire kept the cloak draped over his lap the whole ride back.

 

**~~~**

 

There was a commotion when they returned to the headquarters. People were rushing about in the house upstairs, the noises from the basement sounded as if it were pandemonium, and Grantaire could smell blood. Cloak in hand, he jumped from his mount and ran for the stairs. As he took them, two by two, Éponine on his heels, he noticed blood and dirt on the wooden steps. 

His stomach churned. If something had happened to any of them, it would be on him. And if Enjolras was hurt…

Grantaire threw the door open. People were bustling about, the cots pushed out of the way, and a crowd waited by a corner, in front of a closed door. There was a whimpering coming from behind the door, and voices. Grantaire pushed through the crowd. “Move! Please, everybody, move!”

The crowd parted as they saw who was there. Bahorel waited outside the door, trying to keep people away. His face looked white, gaunt. But his eyes lit up when he saw Grantaire. “There you are! Thank...we have her - they’ve rescued Queen Yseult.”

“Who’s hurt!? Whose blood is that!?”

“Everyones. There was a large fight, everyone was injured.” Bahorel winced as, somewhere behind Grantaire, Joly made a pained sound. “Everyone lives, but the Queen...she doesn’t look good.”

He moved to let Grantaire and Éponine into the room. It rivaled the one Grantaire and Enjolras slept it, and Enjolras in fact there, bloody but apparently already healed. She sat on one side of the bed, Cosette on the other, both of them fussing over what lay between them. It was Queen Yseult, wearing next to nothing, dirty, bloody, and bruised, shouting and thrashing against the other members of her court.

“Mother, please!” Enjolras said, voice strong and stable, but not stern. “You are SAFE now, you must calm down, please, nothing is going to happen to you down here!”

“I d-doubt it!” she cried out. Her voice was so raw that Grantaire was sure her throat was building. “NOTHING is safe, nothing is - “

“Jehan, do you have the potion!?” Cosette asked, turned from where her hands were on Queen Yseult shoulder and arm. Even Cosette, who had not left the building, was dirty and bloody now. “She’s not calming down!”

“Coming, coming!” In the corner of the room, Jehan was pulling flowers from their belt, shoving them in a simmering pot and muttering incantations into the liquid. They dipped their hand into the concoction, pulled it out, grabbed a bee out of midair, and thrust it back in. The potion turned from an ugly green to a calm buttercup yellow. 

They dipped a wine goblet into the mixture and pulled it out full. Cosette jumped from the bed and let Jehan take her place as they rushed across the room. With a strength that was a little surprising in someone so willowy, they pressed a knee to Queen Yseult’s elbow to keep her still. Honestly, jehan was wasting no time. One hand went to her face and squeezed her nose shut. When the queen opened her mouth to breath, Jehan poured the yellow potion down her throat. She coughed and sputtered against it, but ultimately swallowed some.

Before the count of five, Queen Yseult was out cold. Everybody in the room heaved a sigh of relief. Enjolras remained tense by her mother’s side, hand clenched over the woman’s wrist, staring at her scraped, marked face. Grantaire stepped forward, but said nothing. There was nothing much he could think of to say, or to do. So he stood in the doorway, let the others worry around him, and watched Enjolras become a statue over her mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized I didn't proofread this one at all - forgive any small typos for the time being, I'll fix them soon. Thank again for reading, and for all of the feedback! You all are great!


	16. Mothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ALRIGHT. Warning time: Enjolras talks about past abuse in this one. Yet again, not to spoil, just to warn.
> 
> I know it took me a while to write, but (for obvious reasons) it was not an easy chapter to write.

As the Queen slept, Grantaire removed Enjolras from her side and they retired with her and Éponine, as well as Bossuet and Chetta. Those two had been healed by Joly, who they had forced to rest after so much exertion. “He sort of tricks himself into being sick,” Chetta said as they gathered in the room Enjolras and Grantaire were sharing. “So when he DOES get sick...it’s a lot. We’ll fill him in later though.”

“Of course. First, I want to thank you,” Enjolras said. “You both risked your lives on this mission, and Bossuet. I am sure that had you not deflected that first bolt, I would not be here to have this conversation today.

“Secondly, I’m sure the others want to know what happened with us. When we found my mother, the group of mercenaries who was transporting her had almost gotten into the busier parts of the city. If they had succeeded, I believe that we would not have succeeded. As it were, we met them in a field of oats that I fear we destroyed. Either way, it was a rough battle - three of us against seven of them, but then something unexpected happened.” Enjolras pushed her bloodied hair from her face. “Apparently two of the people who were acting as mercenaries were actually loyal to the crown and had only pretended to switch loyalties to these Medirians. They had only joined up with that group a few hours before our arrival, and were happy to join us when they realized who we were. Claquesous’ disguises were amazing, covered our bodies faces in a swirling black smoke that looked near invisible unless we were still, so granted, everyone was terrified when we approached. My mother was panicking more than anyone, so I asked Claquesous to break the magic. We pulled her away, and all of those who had attacked her are dead.”

Bossuet nodded. “Our new allies, however...they went back to the castle to report. So, unless they are found out, we know have known allies inside the castle.”

“That’s a relief. Did they have much information?” Grantaire asked. Brazenly, on the table, he took Enjolras’ hand; she did not pull away. Then he remembered that everyone at this table assumed they were a regular married couple anyways, so they wouldn’t see anything odd about the little affection. But Enjolras’ hand in his made Grantaire feel much better about everything that was going on.

“No, not really. But we got what we went there for.” Enjolras squeezed Grantaire’s hand at that. “I will talk to my mother when she wakes...if she is in the mood to talk.”

But Enjolras herself ceased to talk much after that. During the rest of the meeting, they discussed how they would care for Queen Yseult, keep her presence here a secret from anyone on the outside as much as they could. Grantaire talked about his father’s cloak, and they decided to send out a team of volunteers for a longer search. Grantaire wanted to go himself, of course, but had a feeling that he should stay.

He also learned that his mother’s head had been recovered during the day. He agreed, quietly, to have it cremated, then they could bury her on castle grounds once they took the throne. Grantaire had to push those thoughts away, and hoped that he would stop having visions of that rotting head facing the city from the castle wall.

But all in all, he supposed that the day was a success. 

**~~~**

He lost his certainty in that when, the moment they were alone in their room, Enjolras stumbled to their chamber pot and promptly threw up, Grantaire, shocked, just watched her heave at first. It took him a moment to process, but when he did, Grantaire rushed to kneel behind her. 

Grantaire reached out to rub her back, but the moment he touched Enjolras, she jerked away. Not knowing what to do, he just sat back and waited.

After a moment, Enjolras stilled. But she didn’t move from her position.

“Grantaire?” she all but whispered. “Could you...could you maybe find Cosette for me?”

He nodded, then realized she couldn’t see him. “Of course, anything you want.”

Almost grateful to leave behind a situation which he had no grasp of, grantaire left the room. The moment Cosette found out she was wanted, the young lady was on her feet and flying towards Enjolras. Grantaire, meanwhile, just moved past the cots full of sleeping or quietly talking citizens. He spent a little bit of time talking with them, but found it hard to concentrate. Was Enjolras alright?

**~~~**

That night, Grantaire found nothing out. Enjolras was asleep - Cosette said she had to offer a sleeping potion and Enjolras happily accepted - by the time he was back in their room. 

He slept fitfully, and woke early. Well, he assumed it was early, and dipped upstairs in order to check the levels of light in the sky. Indeed, it was still a dark blue of the early morning.

But Grantaire was not the only one up, or on that level of the house. He found Bahorel sitting in the main foyer, fiddling with his captain’s medal and staring into space. Grantaire approached quietly and sat near him. It spoke to their friendship that neither of them needed to speak immediately; there was no discomfort in sitting in silence for a little bit.

“Do you want to have a ceremony for your mother?” Bahorel spoke up eventually. “Or something private?”

“We’ll have to do something with everyone here,” Grantaire said quietly. Bahorel offered him a flask, and Grantaire was relieved to take a long, burning drink. “She was everyone’s queen, after all.”

“Yes. But she was only _your_ mother.”

Another bout of silence while they shared the contents of the flask.

“Earlier today I thought I might see my father,” Grantaire said, looking down at the dusky brown of the floor. “I wish he was here to do this.”

“We all do.”

Grantaire knocked his knuckles against Bahorel’s knee. “Be there with me when we do the cremation? I’d like it to be just us.”

“Anything you need, Grantaire.”

**~~~**

The cremation was quick. They borrowed the unused potbelly stove in the upper house. Grantaire had been given a box with his mother’s head in it, and was tempted to look. “What if it’s not…?”

Bahorel shook his head. “It might be impossible to tell. But I won’t have you see it.”

He was touched when Bahorel opened the box, facing away from him, to check - Bahorel had loved Queen Pinar almost as much as Grantaire did. “This is her,” he muttered before snapping the lid shut. “It’s...mostly bone, but... it’s her. I’m sure of it.”

Grantaire nodded and took the box back. He put it on a baking pan found in the back and put the whole thing in the oven. Then he stood back and lit the fire so he could finally say goodbye to his mother.

**~~~**

He honestly was hardly aware of the public ceremony for his mother. Grantaire spoke, of course, but had to force himself to keep unfocused on the matter at hand. He had tried to make his peace with his mother’s death, and didn’t want anything to put it in Jeopardy. So Grantaire said his piece, then stood next to her urn as every person in the hidden headquarters came to pay their respects. 

Grantaire knew that he had to take their condolences. But as a surprise, no one came up to him. After the first few people, he glanced at Bahorel. “I told them to wait,” his best friend said. “I didn’t think you could handle it today.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire whispered.

Enjolras was at his other side. He glanced over to her and saw that she looked about as good as he felt. 

Then she took his elbow and rested her head on his shoulder, and his damn broke. The numb, overwhelmed feelings that had been bubbling up in him for the past few days seemed to be taking over. He felt the hot tears overtake his face, and then her hands, wiping them away. “I know,” she said. “Let it go.”

He didn’t want to cry in front of his people, but it didn’t seem he had a choice. Grantaire wept quietly against Enjolras’ hand for a moment or two, until he heard sniffling and gasping take up around the room. It swelled, until Grantaire had to sit down with the meaning of this room full of strangers, all crying for his mother.

For that reason, even if he had no other reason in the world, Grantaire would take the throne back. For all of these people that had loved his mother, that grieved with him for her, for Queen Pinar Grantaire’s memory…

Aenorium Valoris _would_ rise victorious again.

**~~~**

That night, while sitting in the empty dining area after the others had all gone to bed, Grantaire and Enjolras shared a loaf of sweet bread. Neither of them had eaten all day, but after wheedling from Cosette had agreed to have at least a little something. And Enjolras was clearly angry - maybe a snack was a good idea.

“Has anyone been able to find anything out from your mother?” Grantaire said as he more picked at his bread than anything else. His wine glass was more than half empty already, though. He just wasn’t hungry at all. More than anything, he wanted to sleep. Even that, though, he had a feeling, would be mostly denied to him.

Enjolras shook her head, brows furrowed. “She won’t talk to anybody, won’t share anything. Not how she was captured, not where…”

“Must be traumatized. Can only guess what they did to her,” Grantaire said. A captured enemy queen? They were more than likely brutal to her.

“I know exactly what happened to her,” Enjolras muttered around a mouthful of bread. She looked up at him with that fire in her eyes. “She was all but nude when we found her, nothing on her lower level. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

Grantaire felt ill; he had noticed, of course, but tried very hard to not think about that. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure as I ever have been.” Enjolras lowered her hand, which had been hovering near her mouth, a hunk of bread clenched in her fingers. “She was raped by those men.

“And it is ALREADY getting out!I was told by a woman today that my mother needed me! That I needed to sit by her and keep her safe, give her whatever she needs.” Her cheeks were dark in her anger, which was seeping to the surface. “People will expect that I feel badly for her, that I coddle her and help her through this. The duty of a child!

“And by her. Mother will want...I will be expected to sit by her side, to hold her hand, to pet her hair, to...to...no! I will not!” Enjolras pushed her plate of bread away. “I will NOT sit by and comfort her when NO ONE comforted me!”

It hung heavy in the air, the confession of something Grantaire thought he had known for a long time. Enjolras’s shoulders were heaving with her words. Grantaire stood and walked past her to close the doors between the main area and the dining hall. He moved to take his seat again, but Enjolras caught his hand in both of hers as he passed. Her eyes were wild now, mouth gasping as she searched for the words. “Grantaire, no one...no one helped me when that woman in there, the one everyone will pity, set man after man into my room to ‘fix’ me! I was left to lay in the dark alone and wonder what was happening, why, how, what!”

He didn’t know what to do. How did you comfort your spouse who was admitting that her own mother had a personal hand in her continued rape? So he pulled a chair around and sat next to her, their knees touching. She let him take her hands again, which always seemed to comfort her. He didn’t know if he was in the right state after everything for something like this..but would he ever be? There was never a good time to have a conversation like this.

“I cut all of my hair off when I was eight years old,” she whispered after a minute. “Mother had forced me to grow my hair out, and it was down to my knees. She told me that I had to keep it long. So when she went to bed, when everything in the castle was quiet, I snuck to the kitchen and found a pair of shears. I nicked my scalp up pretty seriously, but I got all of my hair off.

“When I went down to breakfast in the morning,I thought Mother was going beat me until I couldn’t walk. But she just calmly acted as if nothing had happened. I did not see her all day.” She paused a minute, as if thinking. “I’m sorry, sometimes I can’t...remember a lot of this. But as I get older, more memories become clearer. She was gone all day, and when I asked Father about her as he put me to bed, he said he didn’t know where she had gone either. Mother always had her moods, so I lay down. Just before I went to sleep, there was a knock on the door. Mother came in with a man who she said was ‘a family friend’ and that he was there to help me. She left him alone with me...I didn’t know what he was doing to me, but I knew it was punishment.

“The next morning I set my wardrobe on fire.” Enjolras seemed to need a break then, and Grantaire let her have it. This was hard to listen to as it was; he could only imagine how hard it was to tell. To live. He gently massaged her hands, and when he looked to her face her eyes were closed but her brows still harsh. “That, I remember clearly. Her words - ‘This isn’t how a princess acts. Do you want to be punished again? Where did my little girl go?’ exactly. I told her that I was not her little girl,I never would be her little girl, nothing would EVER make me the little girl she wanted! I would never be a girl. I would not be her doll, Grantaire, for her to dress up and do my hair and parade me around!”

Enjolras wrenched her hands away from him and stood up. “She didn’t like that So she brought him back. She moved that monster into our house and told me that he was going to be there to teach me how to be a girl. For nearly a month, he stayed with us, and he came into my room every night. He…” She shook her head and faced away from Grantaire. “Did everything. Made me do things that I wish my mind was still locking away wherever these memories used to be hidden!

“So for a while, I stopped. I pretended. And mother sent him away. But she could not destroy me, what I was, what I am! So when I first wore pants, when I took up the sword, when I chose to go to war...she brought them in. Sometimes in the middle of the day. Someti-” Here her voice broke, and took Grantaire’s heart with it. Enjolras finished in a whisper. “Sometimes it was more than one. In a day, or at a time.”

There was a pause. Grantaire stood up and moved close to her. “Enjolras, I’m coming behind you. Can I…?”

She nodded, so Grantaire wrapped his arms around her from behind. He noticed that Enjolras did not relax against him - but how could he expect her to? How did she ever relax around anyone when her own mother had betrayed her in such a way?

“So when they told me I was going to be marrying you, my mother expected me to fight. But...I thought it was a better situation. I could get away from her, and I thought that it was better to have one man I know forcing himself on me every night than a platoon of strangers trying to...trying to fuck sense into me on my mothers command and coin.

“They were all obsessed with my hair.”

He thought back to when they had kissed. Grantaire had touched her hair; she had told him to stop. Even though he hadn’t know back then, he felt sick for having done it now.

“I think...she honestly thought she was helping,” Enjolras ventured. “In her few moments of being a sane person, she told me she was scared for me and that the way I behaved was going to cause my ruin. In my mother’s mid, she was helping me. But she is not a well woman. There is a disconnect in her mind, and the crimes she has committed against me are...unforgivable. The things that she has had a hand in, that have changed me and my life forever? They are monstrosities.

“Do I think, then, that she deserved what happened to her?” At this point, Grantaire was less sure if Enjolras was speaking to him, or just airing out her own thoughts. “Of course not. Then I would be just as bad as her. In fact, when I think on my Grandfather...this may not be the first time she experienced something like this. Maybe she...learned it from someone, I don’t know, I don’t know!”

Enjolras pulled away from Grantaire and turned to look at him. “She is a warped woman wit a sick mind and it doesn’t matter what happened to her to make her that way! SHe never should have done it to me!”

“No, she never should have,” Grantaire said. Enjolras’ eyes were wild, and this was all making him feel physically ill - no wonder she had vomited earlier. “What...what about your father?”

A very pained look crossed her face. “...in the beginning, I don’t think he knew. Later on, I don’t know how he didn’t know. How no one could tell, no one but Cosette, and what could she do against the queen?

But I cannot sit by and hold the hand that pulled so many strings in that...in that fucking TORTURE she put me through! I cannot and will not sit by and coddle the woman that hired men to rape me for YEARS!”

“And no one will make you!” Grantaire promised. He stepped forward and, when she did not step back, took her face in his hands. “No one will make you, if anyone says a damned thing to you, I will personally shut their mouths for them. You are a better child than she ever deserved, and I will not have you injuring yourself in this way from the words of those who do not know any better.

“I’ll help you.”

Her face almost contorted, as if she were not sure whether to laugh or cry. But it seemed to diffuse something, and she reached out for his hand. “Th...thank you, Grantaire. I...thank you.” The touch turned into an embrace, and he held her so tightly, arms enveloped around Enjolras as if he could keep the world away from her with his presence alone. “And...and it never worked.

“It never worked. She tried as hard as she could to make me her little girl, her young lady, her growing woman. But I am none of those things. I have NEVER been those things, and no matter how many men she sent to fuck me, that never changed.”

Enjolras stood on booted toes and turned tired lips close to Grantaire’s ear. “I am no girl nor woman.I have known for as long as I was capable of knowing things, that I am a man. I have always been a man no matter what my betrayal of a body says. I’ve done the research - in other countries it’s so common. Walska, Donz - in the North, people are so unrestricted. It’s not even like Ketor, where the lines between the genders are so blurred that they’re hardly lines. There are easily available spells and potions that can change voice, body…

“Mother thought I was some sort of freak, but I am just a man, though different than some.”

And thin it all came crashing down on Grantaire, something that maybe should have been obvious to him. That definitely should have been obvious to him. The hair, the name, the clothes, how she - how he - shied away from titles like ‘wife’ and ‘princess.’ Grantaire had known of people who had done just what Enjolras was talking about, of course he had. But true, in Ketor gender was less rigid, and he had led a very sheltered life. 

But this? This all should have been so obvious.

Grantaire tucked him closer, if at all possible. “If that is who you are, nothing was going to change it. Nothing that you mother did. She was not right, and she hurt you. My promise still stands. I shall keep you safe from any scornful remarks, as my close friend, and as my husband.”

That was when Enjolras melted against him. “Say it again,” he whispered into Grantaire’s ear. “Please.”

“My husband.”

Grantaire held him close, stroked the back of his hair. This day was one of two many waves, so much information. Enjolras had trusted Grantaire with his entire life, and he would not take it lightly. Enjolras was still shaking against him from the weight of his confessions, so Grantaire set him down so they could both eat. The mood was both somber and charged, relief from secrets being out and pain trudged from the past over a secret that never should have been. But as they ate their bread - Enjolras slowly and in small bites - Grantaire held Enjolras’ hand and knew that he would never let anything like that happen to him ever, ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	17. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter this time, since last chapter was longer than the norm.

Grantaire, if he was honest, did not know what to do for Enjolras. He had said “Just...use the right words for me. He, him...just do that and maybe tell others to do the same.”

“Even with you mother?” he had asked.

“Especially with her.”

“Are you sure you want to tell others?”

“I’ve been ready for a long time,” Enjolras had muttered. “Just...help me, perhaps.”

Grantaire found out that Cosette knew, Cosette had known for a long time - about both confessions. He was not surprised, and honestly was relieved that another person knew, that someone else had known for a long time.

He knew that he could easily change the way he spoke about Enjolras. Tell others to call him the proper pronouns, the proper name - Lucien Enjolras, still. That was the easy part of the previous night. He knew what to do with that information.

But what did he do with the other?

Grantaire could not wrap his head around a mother doing that to her child. How sick the woman must be. In his disgust, he found it difficult to find pity for the woman. Perhaps that said something about him; he didn’t know. But he made a vow to himself to do everything he could to help Enjolras deal with this.

Did Grantaire love him?

No.

They were not there yet. But Grantaire cared about him, Grantaire liked him very, very much. There was an attraction of the spirit and of the aesthetic. A connection he would not have expected after those first few days of the marriage. All of Enjolras’ insistence that they would not be a true married couple made all too much sense now. He was scared of the physical intimacy, of course, after all he had been through. Scared of any activity that may bring up reminders of what had been done. And if his body was not as he would prefer it to be...well, that also could have consequences when it came to certain aspects of married life. Emotionally, as well, Enjolras must carry many scars. He could never trust his parents, clearly, so the things he must have internalized...Grantaire could only imagine. He had a relatively happy childhood and still felt emotionally deficient.

“Will you come with us?” came a small voice from the doorway. Cosette was standing there, watching him think. “The queen’s awake and ready to talk, but I think Enjolras might benefit from having you there.”

Grantaire nodded and pushed himself up. “Did he tell you?” he said quietly before they stepped into the main room. “That I know...everything?”

“Yes,” Cosette said. She slipped her hand into his comfortably, as if they had been doing this all of their lives. “And I am glad that he - it feels good to be able to say that, after having to use the wrongs words for so long! - felt that you were trustworthy enough to tell.”

Then she squeezed. Her soft blue eyes went icy, and her smile suddenly seemed very serious.“So you understand that I will be forced to take drastic measures if you break that trust.”

“I won’t,” he promised. He understood what Cosette was doing and was not offended - Grantaire had done it himself when Bahorel was engaged for a short while. A short while because that woman had been untrustworthy in the end and had broken Bahorel’s heart so badly that Grantaire beseeched his mother to make the man take a vacation for a week to have time to think and heal. Grantaire still didn’t know if he was healed after that and it had been three years ago. “I promise you, Cosette - I respect Enjolras too much for that.”

Her easy smile returned and she laced her impossibly tiny fingers through Grantaire’s. “I know. But I must do my duty. Now let’s go and see what we can learn.”

 

**~~~**

 

He was surprised to find that Enjolras was already in his mother’s room. But Grantaire knew that Enjolras was capable of making his own decisions about what he could and couldn’t handle. So he just gently knocked on the door and opened it.

Enjolras was sitting in a chair to the side of his mother’s bed, legs crossed and fingers steepled in front of his face. Queen Yseult was sitting up, at least, in clothes that someone must had given to her. She looked up in wide-eyed fear at the entrance, but relaxed a little at the familiar faces. The moment he saw her, Grantaire felt angry. Just the sight of her face...but he had to control himself.

“Good,” Enjolras said, voice professional. It was as if he were dealing with a problem in the courtroom instead of sitting in the middle of a family tragedy. “Now we can talk. Mother...we need to know exactly what happened. Anything that we might be able to use to drive these people from our lands.”

“I do not think that what _happened_ to _me_ has any sort of bearing on this! Those barbarians were - “

“Mother.” Already, Enjolras looked strained with this conversation. “Please. I understand the stress that you are under and that you are still unwell, but I am trying to do what I can to rectify this situation.”

Queen Yseult’s eyes danced to Grantaire and Cosette. “I cannot tell you of anything that happened when I was in the claws of those beasts,” she said. “That time is a painful one, Auro-”

“Lucien,” Grantaire said swiftly, not even letting her finish. That she was trying to garner sympathy after how she had mistreated her child made his stomach feel sour and prodded at his temper. “His name is Lucien.”

“Oh!” She threw her hands up in the air. “All of these dramatics now! With your father scattered to the wind, me bedridden, the country FALLEN to PIECES, you are trying to brainwash and bring up this NONSENSE about your NAME and GENDER, and I cannot believe you! Always a selfish thing, and now you have proven it yet again! Do you KNOW what they did to your mother!? And here you are - “

“I know exactly what they did to you,” Enjolras hissed, standing. That fire in his eyes was dangerous, violent enough that Grantaire swore he smelled smoke. Then he realized that he did - Enjolras’ fists were flaming. “The same thing you did to me.”

He whipped out of the room and pushed past Grantaire and Cosette to the door. Cosette followed him, leaving the door to swing shut behind them. Grantaire was left alone with Queen Yseult, who didn’t look like she knew what to feel. She gaped at him like a fish out of water. 

“I...Hercule, you can’t...you can’t believe her, not when she’s in one of her moods, she’ll...say anything to…”

“It’s ‘him,’” Grantaire said. “It’s always been him. I’ll send in someone to attend to you.”

He turned to leave as well, ready to be far away from this woman.

“Wait! Please…”

Grantaire shifted just enough to see her. She had him livid with her little outburst, her unwillingness to even listen to Enjolras, and just the knowledge of who and what she was. He couldn’t be in here. “Hercule, I have made my mistakes as a mother...I have - “

“No. This is not a conversation you need to have with me.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I am pleased that you were not killed, and are somewhere safe. But I will not have this conversation with you. I cannot...cannot even bear to be in this room with you, if I am honest. After what I know, I am disgusted by even this conversation. If Lucien,” he said, just to stick it in her mind that he was not backing down in this, “wants me to be here while the two of you talk about it, I will be here. But it is a conversation between you and your son, and he is the one you need to speak to when you can control yourself and have a conversation like an adult.”

Then he left, before he could say or do something that he would have to pretend to regret.

 

**~~~**

 

Enjolras was nowhere to be found. Grantaire grabbed Éponine and asked her to go speak with the queen, figuring that with her lack of knowledge about the situation, she might be best. To her credit, she listened to his brief explanation of Enjolras’ gender, nodded, and moved on.

If he wasn’t married, he might propose to Éponine one day.

But his pleasure with that did nothing to lessen the tension and anger he felt. He could not find Cosette, either, and concluded that she much be with Enjolras, diffusing this. She had been with him longer - Cosette would know better than Grantaire what he needed at the moment. So, hoping that perhaps just talking with Bahorel would calm him down, he set out on a search for the man. After a few moments of asking around, Montparnasse (who Grantaire was liking more and more despite their introduction) took one hand out of Jehan’s voluminous hair and pointed upwards.

He took the stairs a couple at a time just to release some energy, and made his way around the empty first floor. They often left it empty just in case anyone broke in, so he wasn’t surprised. Grantaire moved up to the second floor. The first door was locked, but the second swung open.

Sitting together at a small table, Bahorel and Feuilly were bent over a pile of parchment, inks, powders, and quills. Bahorel hardly looked up when he entered. As with everyone else among the commoners (though Grantaire had a distaste for that word), Feuilly looked at Grantaire and stood as he entered. Grantaire waved it away with his hand. “No need for the formality, after all you’ve done for us, Feuilly. What are you both working on in here?”

“An ink,” they said, sitting back down. “That is invisible once dried but can be revealed once more by...something? An incantation, or a rub...something.”

They bent back over the parchment as Bahorel scribbled something out, their heads nearly touching as they concentrated. The man was looking much better now, without any trace of bandage. He glanced up at Grantaire. “Did you need me for something?”

“No,” he said, looking at how installed those two were with their work, how close together they were sitting, and the evidence of a meal eaten together, too. Perhaps they were just two people that worked together very very well. But in case it was something else than that, Grantaire wouldn’t interrupt. “I was just wandering, I suppose. I’ll leave you to it.”

He left them with a promise to see Bahorel for dinner, and meandered back down to the basement.

 

**~~~**

 

Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta were sitting in one of the empty rooms when Grantaire stumbled upon them downstairs. They had the door open and were laughing together with such camaraderie that Grantaire had to go over to them and see what they were doing. Everything had been so deep and serious lately, and there was a part of Grantaire that always yearned for light, simple fun.

When he stuck his head into the room, they all greeted him warmly. “Come in, come in!” Bossuet said, waving him over to the table. “Sit down with us! Take a load off!”

Grantaire sat with them, noting with a bit of relief their bottles of wine and ale, as well as cups. Musichetta took a full bottle of ale and pressed it into his hands. “You look tired, your highness - take some of this; you need it!”

“Just earlier today I thought I might marry Éponine,” he said, already feeling lighter. “But Musichetta, I may push you to the top of the list - if you ever want three husbands please let me know, because your gift has made you the most beautiful person in the room.”

The other two raised their glasses to that, and their cheering let Grantaire know that they had been at this a while. Grantaire felt a kinship with them immediately, especially when Joly revealed the head of his cane - which was amazing, it all collapsed into the head on the days he didn’t need it - was perfect from prying the tops off of bottles. 

After everything he had been dealing with for so long, to sit with these three to laugh, spin stories, and drink….? It was just what he needed. If Enjolras or anyone else needed Grantaire, he was easy to find; he settled in, not planning on leaving the room for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as action-packed as it has been but sometimes you need a little breather. Thanks for reading and for all of the wonderful feedback!


	18. Incoming

The next morning, Grantaire’s usual ability to avoid hangovers had abandoned him. Perhaps because he had not been good and drunk in too long. But he had woken up with Enjolras draped over him, so maybe life wasn’t all bad.

Except Éponine, in her usual way, burst into their room far too early. She was not put off by Grantaire’s bare chest or the daggers Enjolras glared at her for waking him (he was much like a cat in that way, which was funny - Grantaire always thought that he was more of a dog person) and just crossed her arms over her chest. “We’re having a meeting - with EVERYONE, in ten minutes.”

“Who has a meeting so early?” Grantaire mumbled as he pushed himself into a sitting position.

“I do - it’s time to make a real move and I want everyone here out in the main room now so we can decide on a plan together.” She looked him up and down. “And put a shirt on.”

Then she was gone, like an unexpected thunderstorm, or a sudden upset stomach. Grantaire yawned and looked to the sleep-tousled Enjolras. “When we take the country back, I’m going to make it illegal to rise before noon.”

Enjolras mumbled something that may have been agreement. He yawned into his hand and pulled the pillow back over his head. Grantaire didn’t remember coming back to the room and going to bed, but he had a feeling that Enjolras may have spent the previous night exactly as he did. He certainly looked like a hungover mess.

“She could at least let us eat,” Enjolras grumbled a moment later, before pushing himself out of bed. “I’m dying for breakfast.”

“Maybe the sooner we go to this meeting, the sooner we can eat,” Grantaire said. He followed Enjolras’ sample and got dressed. It was something that had taken some getting used to, for both of them - after a lifetime of being attended to, habits could be hard to change. Grantaire worried about his valet - there had been no sign of him but hopefully he was in the castle and smart enough to keep his mouth shut. 

**~~~**

“I don’t want you going in,” Bossuet was saying half an hour later. “Chetta, please. I know you want to help and I know you can do it, but...it’s too much. I am not comfortable with _anyone_ going _into_ the castle but especially not you.”

It was easy to say it - send people into the castle to get a better eye on what was going on. A simple decision to make because it seemed very obvious. But when it came to who to send in? That was a completely different story.

Jehan’s offer had been shot down by a death threat from Montparnasse towards anyone who tried to tell them yes. Joly’s healing powers were strong but in a fight Chetta had nearly wept at the idea. Bahorel, now fully healed, made a strong case for it, since he knew the castle’s layout, but Grantaire vetoed that on the fact that he was still weak form recovery and any of the guards may recognize him. Grantaire also denied Enjolras the same request, and in turn was denied by Enjolras. 

“I can go,” Feuilly spoke up in the midst of everyone talking. No one outside of the group of people who seemed to be in charge were offering much. Not that Grantaire or anyone, really, could expect them to - these were craftspeople, merchants, mothers, bankers. People who had never had to fight a day in their lives. But from the crowd of people, Feuilly stood up. “I...have never been to the castle. No one would recognize me. I know a lot of Walskans work in the castle, or at least they used to, so I wouldn’t stand out...and you know the stereotypes. People think all of Walska is built of idiots; they would think me too stupid to be a threat.”

Grantaire looked them up and down. “As nonsense as it is, people do think that. You’d be putting yourself in danger - I can’t assume that you have much experience in combat.”

“No, but...my magic may help.” They sighed. “I don’t use it much, because if I do it for just a second too long, I lose all energy in my body, but...I can turn invisible. Using a few tattoos I have, I can hide myself. But it only lasts for ten minutes. The moment it hits ten, I’m pretty much useless. So I don’t bring it up, but. Well, if I can help in any way, I want to.”

“That’s why we were working on the invisible ink together,” Bahorel said. “If anyone would know, it would be Feuilly.”

Grantaire looked to Éponine and Enjolras. “We’ll be happy to accept your help,” Enjolras said with a smile. He seemed fond enough of Feuilly that in a different world, Grantaire may have been jealous. “Thank you.”

“But you’re not going in alone,” Bahorel said. He stood up, the, realizing that left only himself and feuilly standing like in some dramatic play, sat back down. “I refuse to let that happen.”

And Grantaire noticed that his cheeks were red.

Ah. Interesting.

But then Chetta stood up again. “So let me go with them! I am beyond helpful in this sort of situation and you know that, Bo!” She turned her gaze to Enjolras and Grantaire. “I can see into the immediate future of any room I’m standing in. In fact, it’s perfect, because my power stretches to about fifteen minutes in the future. If I am honest, it’s not always as reliable as I would like it to be, and it relies heavily on projections of the intentions of other people, which can change at any minute, but I think with Feuilly’s invisibility - well, it would be perfect.”

Before either Bossuet or Joly could say anything - and Grantaire could see that they wanted to - he raised a hand. “Why don’t you tell me, then” he said, getting a laugh. “Do we agree to give you a yes?”

“I believe you do.”

Honestly, it was a strange agreement - two small people going in alone. But sending in any more could be risky, and deciding on just two of them was hard enough. Neither was well trained in combat, though Grantaire had learned the previous night that Musichetta was the daughter of lumberjacks and could throw an axe with the best of them. But they were both determined, and Grantaire believed in them.

“Then there we are,” Enjolras said. “Feuilly and Musichetta, you will be our spies. We’ll give you a day to prepare, if that’s alright, and maybe Grantaire and Bahorel can explain a bit about how the castle is laid out to you.”

“Sounds perfect to me,” Éponine said. “We’ll make sure you’re armed by then, and one thing matters above all else - if you feel as if you are in danger of being found out, get out of there. Lives are more important than information.”

Grantaire could see that neither Joly nor Bossuet was pleased, and Bahorel looked rather put out, but this was something that they all had to deal with. If all went well, it would be for the best and they would come out with much more information than anyone would get scouring the streets.

**~~~**

That night, after a long day of going over plans, layouts, and emergency protocol, Grantaire was hoping for a chance to just talk to Enjolras and see how he was feeling. Cosette had been helping him gently and politely inform people of Enjolras’ pronouns and new first name, and making sure that it was nothing he had to deal with directly - as much as they could help it. And Enjolras had not even tried speaking to his mother. 

But once everyone was calming down and getting ready for bed, Grantaire noticed that Enjolras was nowhere to be found. He couldn’t find him in any of the rooms underground. So, even though they tried to avoid using the upper part of the house at night, Grantaire moved up the stairs. On the second floor was where he found Enjolras, sitting on a balcony, knees pulled up to his chest. He didn’t move when Grantaire sat next to him, except to give him a glance. “I know it’s dangerous to be outside alone,” he said. “But no one can see me up here, and I don’t like being so trapped downstairs. I never did well in confined places.”

“I don’t think anyone will even notice us out here,” Grantaire said. When he looked up, he could see the stars, shining above. “Feel like years since I’ve seen the stars.”

“That’s why I came up here. I missed them.” Enjolras raised his hand, pointing at a cluster of stars. “That’s L’Syg. She’s the swan.”

“Here we call her La Blanche,” Grantaire said. “And she’s not a swan, she’s a giant mythical bird who saved the hero Hercule from the fire streams. I was named after him, you know. He should be here somewhere, it’s the right time of year for him…”

He tilted his head up and scanned the sky until he saw the tell-tale sign of Hercule - the seven jewels of his crown done in seven bright stars close together. “There. Do you see?”

“No, I don’t,” Enjolras said after a minute. 

Grantaire leaned closer to him, and took Enjolras’ hand in his; it made his heart skip a beat. He told Enjolras to extend his pointer finger, and he did the same, resting his finger along the side of Enjolras’. “Right there,” he said, moving their hands until they were pointing at the right spot. “Those seven bright stars are his crown, given to him by the goddess Brighlaine after he returned her lost daughter. And do you see the stars almost fanning out behind him? Apparently he had beautiful long hair. And then his belt, his scabbard, his sword...his hands, his boots.”

“Oh, I do see him.” Enjolras smiled softly. “You were named after him? He’s a countrywide hero but I don’t know much about him…”

“He was amazing. He lived for 200 years, and that is not even part of the myth. He was born a poor mage’s son in the backwaters of Ketor. They came from nothing, but he worked his land and odd jobs until he could find a master to apprentice under and grew to be the man who discovered Ketor. Since his time he has taken on mythical proportions, and it’s hard to know what is and isn’t true at this point. But one thing stands certain - he was a brave, good man who created a kingdom from nothing. The people love him to this day,” Grantaire said.

“I think your mother named you properly.”

Grantaire turned to Enjolras and watched him with his mouth hung open, just a little. “...what?”

“I just think he sounds like you now. You’re coming up from hiding in the basement of a shop and a hidden brothel to rise up and be king again.” Enjolras brought Grantaire’s hand to his mouth and kissed one of his knuckles. “And your people do love you. They flock to you every time we’re out in the common room.”

“And to you,” he said. “Not even just those that were from Elus. You’re just as well-liked as I. Probably more so with that handsome face of yours.”

At that, Enjolras dropped his hand; Grantaire could tell it was in jest. “Stop that. You’re as handsome as anyone.”

“No, no - my father is the handsome one in the family.” If he was still alive, that was. 

“You once told me that your father looked like you,” Enjolras said. “Before I even met you. And I have to agree with that; you could be brothers.”

“And your point?”

“Well, if you and I agree on two points - that you look like your father, AND that your father is handsome, then logically we must agree on the third point, which is this: You’re a very handsome man, Hercule Grantaire.”

He was used to hearing it from older people within the court trying to gain his favour. Before the wedding, marriageable young women told him often how handsome he was. His mother used to tell him every day.

But there was one difference. When Enjolras said it, he believed it. He could not believe those that wanted his favour, or young women trying to marry their way to the throne. Grantaire knew that his mother meant it, but she was biased - a mother had to think her son handsome.

Enjolras had no such obligations. Enjolras already had the throne, and his favour. And Enjolras was the one who leaned and rested his head on Grantaire’s shoulder. Suddenly, his face felt very hot.

“...thank you,” he whispered. And he tucked an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders.

They lapsed into quiet for a little, sitting under the stars. Grantaire kept his eye strained upwards, searching out the shapes and stars he knew, which counted into the hundreds. He was fascinated with astronomy and astrology both. Grantaire felt Enjolras raise a hand and press it to his chest. His small hand made a fist in Grantaire’s shirt.

“How are you doing?” he whispered.

“It varies,” Enjolras admitted. “I don’t think I can go back in there.”

“You don’t have to.” Grantaire would make sure of that.

“Thank you. And thank you as well, for all of your help with the other...everyone has been very nice and accepting of it. I suppose I am just too used to Elus. They’re still not used to it, the people here from the South, but they say nothing. And I think it’s because of you, and Cosette, being so adamant and answering all of the questions I can’t.” Enjolras turned to face him and wrapped those thin arms - thinner by the day, with their small rations - around Grantaire’s chest. “I fear that, since I came here, I have taken over your life.”

“What are you talking about?” Grantaire asked. He raised a hand, meaning to pet his hair in comfort. Then he remembered that Enjolras didn’t like that, and settled said hand onto Enjolras’ shoulder instead.

“I just...with all of my talk of Mother, and my identity, and everything...I feel as if you’ve been wrapped up in my problems,” he said, face against Grantaire’s chest. “I never ask after you, and you’ve been suffering as well.”

The thought hadn’t even occurred to Grantaire. “I don’t think that’s true. Just your presence is a comfort, and you hold my hand, and you share a bed with me. That may be all I need.”

“But after your own mother…”

“I don’t like to think about it. I’m hoping to move on after the ceremony we had, and it’s easier if, for now, I concentrate on other things.” Grantaire still thought about her every single day, though. “I do miss her, but she always detested the way I dwelled on things.”

“If you ever want to talk about her, or anything, or have anything you want to tell me, I want you to know I am willing to listen. I know that I can seem cold, and distant, but I do care.” He looked up at Grantaire with those dark, gorgeous eyes. 

He couldn’t help but kiss Enjolras’ brow. “Thank you. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Enjolras let go of Grantaire but stayed leaning against him. He looked back up to the sky. “Do you now any more of the constellations?”

“I do.” He sought out one with an interesting story, and they spent the rest of the night exchanging stories written in the stars.

**~~~**

Everyone was gathered for breakfast, grantaire sitting with a gathering of children and telling them stories while they ate, when a messenger came down the stairs so quickly that she nearly fell. Everything in the dining hall quieted, forks and spoons stopping and all chatter quieting as the messenger attempted to catch her breath. “You...you can’t send them in,” she heaved, bent over with her hands on her knees. Éponine stood up and went over, guiding her to a chair. “Thank you...it’s all over the city. I was out - it’s terrible out there, truly...they’ve...they’ve started…”

Éponine got the girl something to drink, and after a moment she was ready to speak again. “Thank you...sorry. They’ve started doing mandatory public executions,” she said, handing the now empty glass cup back to Éponine, “and are encouraging citizens to give each other up for breaking their inane laws. It’s even worse now - curfews, all education is being shut down, no new allowed except for the official castle crier...but that’s not why I’m here. There’s a ship, a ship arriving in the harbor. I heard the dock workers talking, saying that on board two of the people who arranged this entire mess, who are coming over here in their campaign to take over as leaders of Mendir, and us as well in the process…”

“Did you get any names?” Bahorel asked from his seat nearby.

“Thénardier,” she said. “A-alain and Guinevere Thénardier.”

There was a crash as the glass slipped from Éponine’s grasp and shattered all over the floor. A few people jumped up to help, but Grantaire just watched her. The names meant nothing to him, nothing to him at all.

But judging by that reaction, they must have meant something to Éponine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> And yes, I semi-named the Thénardiers after Alun Armstrong and Jenny Galloway, who do my favourite performances of the two of them.


	19. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's pacing? I don't know!

“No, just get OFF of it!” Éponine said, pushing Montparnasse away from her. She had left the dining hall quickly, boot crushing glass in her need to get away. But of course she had been followed - Montparnasse, Grantaire, and Enjolras, as well as Cosette, went after Éponine and barely caught up to her at the bottom of the stairs.

Montparnasse put his hands on his slim hips. “They’ll find out anyway, ‘Ponine! It’s not EMBARRASSING, just TELL them!” He leaned forward and squinted his eyes. “If you don’t, I will.”

“Then go ahead, but those people are dead to me and I refuse to dignify them by even SPEAKING about them unless as the enemy. I don’t want to talk them.” She stomped up the stairs, swearing the whole way up.

There was quiet, then Montparnasse shrugged. “Well, you heard her - let me tell you exactly what we got.”

Cosette was still looking up the stairs. “Are you sure you should? She looked rather. Ornery about it all.”

“That’s just her. Now let’s head upstairs so I can tell you in private.”

 

**~~~**

 

Montparnasse set them up in the library upstairs. They lounged in different chairs in a semi-circle while Montparnasse stood out the window. “Despite my love for dramatics, I’m not going to be sugar-coating this. She’s mortified by this and, since you know what these people are capable of, I’m sure you’ll understand why.

“‘Ponine is a Thénardier. Alain and Guinevere? Her parents.” Though he had said he wouldn’t be dramatic, Grantaire DID note a pause for effect. “She ran away from them when they stopped working for a better life and turned into money-grubbing monsters. Now, saw what you will about ME, but these people would truly do anything to make a quick fortune. They don’t want to lead - they want to be the richest. Be the best.

“They used to be great, according to ‘Ponine. They were poor but worked hard - if not totally morally, I understand, I wasn’t there - and loved their children. She has...what is it, four younger siblings? At least the ones that she knows about, and her parents were determined to make a better life for them.”

Things went a little quiet, and a voice spoke from the door. “But then Dad got a little taste of power, and money...and it all fell apart.”

Éponine looked angry, still, but her voice was soft and almost sad. “Listen. I don’t like to talk about this, or think about it, but I know them - or at least the people they used to be. That’s why I’m running this thing. I knew they would vie for the top seat and I wanted to be able to do something to stop them.

“And I have siblings. The oldest was only 13 when I left - my sister, Azelma. Then there’s Gavroche, he’s probably 13 himself now. And the little boys, I don’t even know their names; Mom was still pregnant with them at the time...but I couldn’t even guess what’s happened to them. I don’t know a single thing that’s happened in that family since I left but I can bet that my parents have been villainizing me to brothers and sister this whole time…” She shook her head. “I worry that if they find out I’m part of this, they’ll hurt Azelma or Gavroche to punish me or just...I don’t know, they could be doing anything to those children, if they’ve been brought over I want to help them. It’s all too much.”

Enjolras stood up and moved over to her. “Of course you want to help them. We’ll send out people to watch the disembarkment and see who come off the ship, just so we know if our siblings have arrived.”

“And then..I don’t know, this sort of puts a damper on our plans to send people in. I don’t want to expose anybody to those people if I can help it.” Éponine leaned against the doorframe. 

“Better a couple now than the whole country later,” Grantaire said. After all of the fighting over who to send in, he was not going to just give up on this mission. “Let’s just wait a little to send Feuilly and Chetta in, alright? Give them a chance to prepare a little and us to see what sort of changes this new arrival will create.”

“I don’t think waiting is a good idea,” Montparnasse said, lounging against the window like a cat. “I say we send them in as quickly as possible - the people who have been in the castle this whole time will think they arrived on the ship, the people who arrived on the ship will think they had been in the castle. With the chaos of a big arrival like this, it’s the perfect time to sneak people in.”

Grantaire nodded. “You just might be right. Let’s ask them, see if they’re both comfortable with going in, say, tomorrow morning?”

Éponine sighed. “We’ll leave it up to them, I guess. I can’t deny that Montparnasse was. Ugh. Right. So let’s see, we can ask.”

Cosette bounced to her feet. She was always bouncing, or flouncing, or bustling, even when she wasn’t wearing the large skirts those brought to mind. “And for now, let’s get you somewhere to rest. You looked as if you’ve aged a year in ten minutes.”

“What?” Éponine said as Cosette patted to her on dainty feet and took her arm. “There’s too much to do…”

“Things the Princes can handle.” Her voice was so certain that even had Grantaire not been willing to work, he never would have fought her. “Now come with me and I’ll draw you a bath, with some tea….”

Cosette pulled her out of the door, and down the hall Éponine could be heard asking for something stronger than tea. Enjolras shook his head. “Cosette will have her for the rest of the day. But she’s right - who knows how much time for relaxation we’ll have, and I’ve only seen Éponine even sit down what, twice? So we’ll pick up where she left off and let Cosette do as she will.”

“It looks like we don’t have a choice,” Montparnasse said. He seemed impressed. 

“Trust me,” Enjolras said. “I’ve been victim of her distractions many time - we don’t.”

 

**~~~**

 

The team they chose to send out to watch the passengers leave the ship came back with news that sent Éponine right to the wine cask - four younger people had come on shore with the Thénardiers. Three girls and one boy. She had simply stood up, disappeared into the dining hall, and come out with a large goblet of dark wine.

“So they’re here,” she said. “My parents have dragged my siblings all the way over here. All I can hope is that they haven’t brainwashed them into thinking that all of this nonsense is alright. Azelma and Gavroche are alright, I think - they remember how life was before, when we were living under society’s boot. But the younger boys? I just don’t know….”

Feuilly rolled their shoulders. “If we can do so safely...do you want Chetta and I to let one of them know about you?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know, it’s all...a lot. Just go in, be safe, and. Well, it’s a long shot, but if anyone with those names - Azelma or Gavroche - asks about me, don’t lie. We’ll find a safe place to meet that’s not near here to meet. I told them where I was going, but...I don’t know.”

Grantaire cleared his throat. He didn’t want to be the one to bring this up, but if he had to be, then so he would. “And if they are not on your side, but aligned with your parents? Or being forced into working for them, to find you?”

“If my parents get ahold of me, I do not hesitate to think that my father, at least, would kill me, or hurt my siblings.” She folded her arms. “Which is why I would go alone to any meetings - they do not need to know I am connected to anybody at all, much less the rebellion. So if my siblings desire to meet with me, then I will decide when and how.”

The way she drained her goblet and slammed it down left no room for an argument. “Feuilly could you find Chetta for me? I’d like to talk to the both of you about these people so you know what to expect.”

Grantaire and Feuilly watched her leave. “She’s a real show,” Grantaire said. “I like her, though. Wish she wasn’t going through all of this.”

“Wish none of the country was,” Feuilly agreed. “Never what I imagined from...anything? If that even makes sense. This is just exhausting. And I’m worried. What if Chetta and I are not convincing enough? What if we’re captured?”

With a cocky grin, Grantaire nudge their elbow with his. “Then we’ll come in and get you with all of the fury we can muster.”

Under their freckles, Feuilly turned pink. Grantaire was not teasing. He was not used to having close friends of his own; there was no way he was going to let anything happen to a single person here.

 

**~~~**

 

That next morning, Grantaire and Enjolras stood witness to the team headed for the castle, and the rather romantic goodbye between Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta in the carriage house connected to Éponine’s house. No matter how she assured them that she would be alright, they made her promise to not put herself in danger and come home to them safely. It was almost embarrassing to watch, and Grantaire noticed that Enjolras was looking pointedly away, trying to speak with Feuilly.

After a moment, Chetta and Feuilly (dressed in generic brown dresses and simple aprons borrowed from a pair of sisters) loaded into a hay cart to ride into the city, with another of their number in the driver’s seat. Grantaire raised his hand in farewell, glad for the sunlight as the door creaked open - it was something that he and Enjolras hadn’t enjoyed for quite some time. With the bounty on their hands, neither had been outside during daylight since the day Enjolras had brought his mother home.

Just as the cart pulled away, a deep voice from behind them called out “WAIT!”

Grantaire turned just in time to see Bahorel come racing out of the house, something clutched in his hand. The captain approached Feuilly in the cart and held out his hand. In it was a handkerchief, part of his dress uniform. “Take this,” he said, his muscular hand pressing the square of fabric into Feuilly’s thin palm. “Be safe, alright?”

“I will be,” they said with an easy smile. “I’ll miss you...all,” they finished awkwardly. Feuilly took the handkerchief and put it safely in their pocket as the hay cart rocked to life and pulled out of the carriage house.

Grantaire looked over to Bahorel. “That’s something you usually see during wartime,” he said, amused.

“What else are we in?” But his cheeks were dark.

“And usually something you see between people who have known each other more than two weeks,” he teased, knocking his shoulder against Bahorel’s.

“Don’t you mock me!” he said, returning the gesture with more force. 

“But you make it so easy,” Grantaire said, throwing his arm around Bahorel’s shoulders. “Come on, let’s go distract you from your missing love. How about it, boys? Shall we go have something to drink?”

“Shouldn’t we find some work to do?” Enjolras asked, arms folded.

“...can’t we have a drink while we work?” Grantaire said. “Nothing livens up maps and treaties like a little ale.”

Enjolras opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Well, I for one...suppose I can’t argue against that. Fine. I’ll meet you up in the library.

“Bring a glass for me!”

 

**~~~**

 

They spent a long while in the library with various people, discussing plans, borders, ideas, and anything at all that seemed relevant. But after a while, Grantaire and Enjolras were left alone, one large map of their continent spread out before them.

“I took a trip to Hesu once,” Grantaire said, pointing. 

Enjolras looked at the country, just North of Valay and Peraesea. “What brought you there?”

“When I was 16, we did a mock war party for training purposes. I travelled with a group of warrior hopeful from ager 14 to 26, including Bahorel just before his promotion to Captain. It was a lot of work and I spent a lot of time bloody or bruised. But for the most part, it was loads of fun. A lot of bonding took place that summer. Of course, which a bunch of young people you can imagine what else went on.” He wondered for a moment if he should have brought it up.

But Enjolras just snorted into his glass. “I can only begin to conjure the sort of things that happened in those tents.”

“In the tents, in the stables, right out there in the open...people were wild. And not only that but fighting, drinking, gambling, and more stupid bets than one can think of.” And a lot of things Grantaire didn’t even want to think about. But there were some good parts of that summer, too. The ones he remembered were good. He thought. “Let’s see...where was it on the map? Right here, this lake? He dared me that I couldn’t swim all the way across it naked. He said he would ride over there with some friends and some clothing and wait for me. He did, but when he did not tell me was that on the other side of the lake was a convent. I emerged, completely nude, in front of 25 young priestesses and an oracle who looked to be about 9,000. 

“I never knew an old religious lady could pack such a wallop!”

That made Enjolras laugh, relaxing against the back of his chair. “Did she know you were the Prince of Ketor?”

“Not until after!” Grantaire was laughing now, too. “Bahorel explained everything, then the old bird just said ‘If YOU are meant to be king of Ketor, then I have never been prouder to be Hesun!’”

They were both laughing, wine in their hands, warm candles lit around them. “Once I’m king I should go back and see her - I doubt she’s dead, the woman was a paragon of strength!”

“She certainly sounds it.” Enjolras drained the rest of his wine. “It is strange to think that we will very likely be kings when this war is done.”

The mood of the room seemed to somber with those few simple words.

“I will not let my mother be a Queen with any power,” he continued, “even if she were in any state to do so.”

“I doubt she will be any time soon, in the least,” Grantaire said. “She hasn’t left her room, and didn’t Jehan say she asks to be sedated more often than not? The woman could develop an addiction.”

“Then let her live in a sedated world where she is not a monster.”

They fell quiet, and Grantaire missed the laughter. How quickly things changed - that seemed to be the motto of his life recently, though, didn’t it? One would think he would come to expect it by now.

“Do you think either of our fathers live?” Grantaire asked, pouring the last of the wine into Enjolras’ glass. They hadn’t spoken much of them. “I worried that bringing them up would…”

“Tempt fate,” Enjolras finished for him. “As do I. But...I hope they live. Perhaps they are together, working their way back to us. Perhaps they are elsewhere, gathering armies. Your father’s cloak was found to the South, perhaps they went that way to search for my father’s allies.”

Grantaire looked at the spot on the map, near where he found the cloak. “Those who went to search for any signs of him came back empty-handed.”

“Perhaps that’s a good thing. If there was nothing else to find, perhaps he lives on.”

“I wish I could believe that.” It was hard to, honestly. It was always hard for him to look on the bright side. “I...think I believe him dead.”

“And I believe them both alive. I suppose we shall see, yes?” Enjolras rolled his shoulders. “I hope that I am correct.”

“As do I.”

 

**~~~**

 

Grantaire just happened to be in the upper part of the house alone that night. He was reading up on the history of the country that now called itself Mendir in an attempt to feel useful, sitting on first floor with the windows shut. They wanted the house to seem empty to anyone watching from the window or the street.

Sitting in a large chair - old yet still plush - Grantaire felt himself growing bored to tears with the tome on his lap. History fascinated him...when it was done right. This was nothing but dates, names, and shifting treaties, with nothing of the people of the city-states, the culture; he dozed off a few more times than he would like to admit, finally falling asleep for good just after the moon had risen to it’s highest point in the sky.

When Grantaire woke, he wasn’t sure why. He was still alone, his candle still burning - he couldn’t have been out that long. His book was still in his lap, and he hadn’t kicked over the empty bowl from his late dinner, which lay near his feet. Yet, he was positive that he heard something.

He yawned and closed the book before setting it on a side table. Grantaire got to his feet. And as he did, he thought he heard knocking. Not wanting to draw any attention to himself, he froze. Likely it was just a neighbor outside, or an animal, or a confused bird.

But he didn’t want to risk it. So he waited.

Just as he was sure that he had imagined it, Grantaire heard the knocking again. It was coming from the Western side of the house, and Grantaire crept over to that side of the room. He left his candle burning, so if anyone outside COULD see it they would be less aware that he was travelling around the house.

The knocking sounded again, this time more urgent. He was suspicious, and rightly so - anyone who wanted to get in that was part of their group would know an incantation to open the door. Slowly, quietly, (since he was luckily not wearing shoes) Grantaire moved across the hall and into the kitchen. The knocking was most definitely coming from there - all of the other doors to the house were boarded up.

The dark, although his ally, was ready to betray him; as Grantaire ducked closer to the table, his foot caught a chair. The chair tumbled over, making a loud, clattering sound. He froze, but the damage was done.

And from the other side, he heard a long, trilling whistle.

Heavensbird.

Now...this was either someone on their side, or the enemy had learned their code. Would he risk it? Grantaire summoned a vicious, tightly packed wind around his fingers and hid his hand behind his back. Then he moved over to the door and opened a slot in it.

Standing on the stairs was a boy - not quite old enough to be a young man - with a dark mop of hair, dusky skin, and a gap between his front teeth. He was dressed nicely, but the clothing looked as if he didn’t care for it. His hair was a mess, there was dirt on his face, and his eyes had a mischievous glint to them even in the gloom of the carriage house.

Grantaire was instantly reminded of himself at that age.

“You know LaLoup?” the boy asked, standing on his tiptoes. “I got the name and this place outta a girl named Chetta? What kinda name is Chetta? She’s really pretty though. Like I said - you know LaLoup?”

He almost laughed; Grantaire hoped his suspicion was right regarding the identity of this young fellow. “Who is asking, young master shadow?”

“My name is Gavroche,” he said, “and I’ve been lookin’ for LaLoup for a LONG time, so let me in before I kick the door down!”

That time he did laugh - but he opened the door. How could he not, after that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	20. Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I bring you a pre-Aenorium Valoris map! Black dots mark the countries that betrayed them!
> 
> Also, I'm having a house guest for a little while, so I might not get the next chapter up as soon as I would like. Just a heads up!

 

Éponine had wept at the sight of her younger brother in her house, and fell to her knees to embrace him. “You IDIOT,” she said, in the kitchen with Enjolras and Grantaire just sort of watching. “It was SO dangerous to come here alone!”

“When I got it out of that Chetta lady you were here I HAD to come see!” Gavroche was almost taller than Éponine when she was on her knees that way, and patting her on the head. “You look too skinny! I knew you were doin’ somethin’ stupid like this once you left! BUt we weren’t even allowed to TALK about you - THEY act like you never existed!”

“That’s fine by me,” Éponine said. “But HOW did you end up here? Chetta, you said?”

“Yeah!” He just let Éponine look over him as he spoke. “She spoke to me when she found me sneaking snacks in the kitchen, asked if I only had the one sister, said she heard a rumor about another. So I said I USED to, but we didn’t know where you WERE and I had been looking for you while travelling all over with our so-called parents! And she goes, ‘You don’t like them, do you?’ so I told her ‘No, they’re nasty and cruel people and I want to live with Ep instead!’ and she gave me this address but told me to ask for LaLoup which i KNEW was you ‘cause remember I used to call you wolf when I was little?”

He said all of this so quickly that it was hard to understand; but Éponine apparently had no issue. “I know, I know. That’s why I picked the name.”

“I knew I was right to let you in,” Grantaire said. “Éponine’s told us all about you.”

Gavroche watched him carefully over the top of his sister’s head. “And who are YOU, her new beau?”

Grantaire laughed at that - this kid had only been here about 20 minutes and had done nothing _but_ make Grantaire laugh. “I’m afraid not,” he said, raising his left hand and wiggling his fingers; the dim candlelight caught on his simple wedding ring. “I’m married to the sun god you see next to me.”

Enjolras, who had just been woken up, did not look like much of a sun god. He looked like a yellow puppy just woken up from a nap. Gavroche clearly thought so at least, because he looked at Enjolras and shrugged. “Ep’s prettier.”

Éponine cuffed him over the ear; it still looked affectionate. “Don’t go around insulting them - those two will be the kings when we’re done here so you don’t want to go around making enemies of them now.”

“THESE are the people Father’s so obsessed with finding? The wanted posters for you look like garbage, then. YOU have a too-small nose and too big feet on them.” Gavroche looked them over carefully and pointed at Grantaire. Then he pointed to Enjolras. “And YOU have too much hair and are wearing a dress. I don’t think you have to worry about him finding you - he could look you in the face and not know!”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Enjolras said. Grantaire could see he was trying not to laugh as well - this one always wanted to seem so serious when there was work to be done. “Coming here must have been dangerous.”

Gavroche laughed then, loud and brash - just like Éponine’s. “I told Father I wanted to come explore the city and he said ‘Go on, get out - ain’t need brats like you running amok over my castle!’ Real bastard about it, too.”

Éponine sighed. “Sounds like nothing’s changed, then. How’s Azelma?”

“Not the happiest about being dragged all over the place, but hoping that this change might uh. Stop her wedding.” Gavroche quickly stepped back from Éponine, and it was good he had done so.

Because something was coming over Éponine. Her back bristled and she hunched her shoulders. Grantaire stepped a bit in front of Enjolras as they watched her spine bulge outward. Éponine’s hair seemed to draw back towards her head as if shifted from dark brown to a grey. And she was growling. 

The woman stepped back and there was a ripping sound from below - her feet elongated, growing claws, growing fur. Her hands were doing much the same, until they were paws, sharp and deadly. Grantaire had never seen anything like this before, and as much as he trusted Éponine, did not want to risk anyone getting hurt.

However, even as Éponine’s face lengthened, just a bit, even as her teeth sharpened and her eyes turned yellow, Gavroche didn’t flinch. His step back had given her the room to transform - she was now twice her size - but he wasn’t scared. In fact, he looked a little bit bored.

Éponine’s shoes were destroyed, but her clothing had stretched. However, she looked feral; half woman, half wolf, on her back legs, with a tail - HER tail - poking through her clothes and up in the air like a flag. “What?” she growled, the sound more animalistic rumbling than an actual word. “Azelma’s getting MARRIED!?”

“Don’t get angry at me,” Gavroche said, folding his arms and acting for all the world as if his sister had not just transformed into a wolf-like beast in front of his very eyes. “Mother set up a marriage for Azelma to the idiotic son of some rich fellow - Bamabatois or some shit - to make a good alliance for when they become King and Queen or whatever it is they want to be!”

“What are you swearing all the time for?” she barked. “They’re just SELLING her OFF!?”

“They’d sell her for less than that and you know it.”

Éponine whipped around and blew past them, heading for the upper levels of the house, claws scratching the floor and tail thumping against the wall. Just a moment later they all heard a loud, echoing howl.

“I knew she wouldn’t like it, but that’s why I HAD to tell her. That guy is a real bastard. He may be stupid but it doesn’t make him any nicer, and I can’t do anything to stop it. But if Éponine can steal Az away for we all leave or you can kick my parents out of the country…” For the first time, Gavroche looked downtrodden. “I don’t want Az to marry him, and I don’t want OUR parents in charge of a country. They already have miserable plans for THIS country, and they’re MONSTERS. They’ve already put some new law into action and we haven’t even been here a DAY.”

Grantaire glanced at Enjolras. “What...sort of new law?”

“Oh, shit,” he said. “I was supposed to tell you first thing, but I got so excited seeing Ep - they’re setting up a country-wide religion - Andar, from home. It’s mandatory. They’re giving everyone a week to convert, but they said tomorrow they’re gonna start burning some temples? It doesn’t sound good.”

Grantaire’s heart fell into his stomach. “Burning temples? Do you know which ones?”

“They just said the old ones, I don’t know. But they said they’re just going to start doing it.”

Enjolras tensed. “I’m going to go get a team together to ride out, then - religious persecution is such a dangerous thing. I’ll find the maps, maybe Bahorel would know...Grantaire, I need to go start on this now if we want to get our people out.”

“Wait - what if it’s a trap? They know about us…”

“No, I don’t think my parents think you’re a risk,” he said. “Or not the revolution at least. “I don’t think it’s a trap - I think they just assume you can’t stop them. But with Ep here, that’s just wrong. Nothing’s ever stopped Ep before.”

“And you know what?” Grantaire said. “Nothing much stops me, either. And the whole revolution is made up of people like us. So you don’t have anything to worry about, alright? We’ll make sure nothing happens to you, or your sisters. And your parents...well.

“They don’t know who they’re messing with.”

**~~~**

They certainly didn’t. With an hour Enjolras had groups sent out to each old temple, and others to just wander the streets near other places of worship.

Montparnasse was not taking it well. “They’ll chain themself to that door and get themself killed,” he had hissed when Jehan, a devout follower of the old Gods, had left right away to defend the temple they not only worshipped at but had a hand in repainting a couple years back. It had resulted in a shouting match that woke those who still slept and ended with Jehan storming off and Montparnasse being covered in bee stings. Now he was not speaking to anyone, but sitting in the corner dissolving a hole in the table while his gang of derelicts gathered around him.

Grantaire, meanwhile, was listening to Éponine and Gavroche argue. And he was tired of it, if he was honest.

“He wants to help,” he said finally. “Let him. We need someone in his position.”

“What?” Éponine said, turning to look at him. At least she was no longer in wolf form - they were going to have a conversation about THAT. “And let him risk his life?”

“He’s...how old are you, Gavroche?”

“14 next month,” he said.

“14 next month,” Grantaire repeated. “A good many people have seen battle before 14. And this isn’t even battle. He’s just going to see about allies we may have in the castle, and help us reach out of the country. Which we need.”

“I know we need it, but…” she sighed and sat down. 

“I won’t get hurt,” Gavroche promised. “I’ll just get messages to you...and out, like Grantaire said. I bet I can bribe someone with those permissions to cross the border and see about getting allies! I want to HELP, Ep, I HATE that people are being treat like our parents always treated us! They’re out of control, we have to stop them, or at LEAST get them to go back to Mendir! If they fail here they’ll NEVER be chosen to lead!”

“And it might make the others see the errors of their ways,” Cosette offered, from where she had come to sit by Éponine and bring her some tea. “If they see a failure, they may see that it was never the right thing to do, or at least give them pause about the terrible ways people across the seas are being treated.

“Right!” Gavroche said. Grantaire wasn’t sure he agreed, but let them continue on. “See, she’s smart - listen to her. And let. Me. Help!”

Éponine sighed and threw back her tea as if it were something much harder. “Fine! Fine. You learn what you can, and if you can get word out - safely! - to any foreign allies, let us know so we can draft a call to arms. I’m counting on you!”

He saluted her as if he were in her guard. “You can count on me, sis!”

“Well done, Gavroche!” Grantaire said, clapping him on the back. He liked this feisty young man very much.

**~~~**

The next morning, hours after Gavroche left, Grantaire and Enjolras settled down to breakfast with a few others, gathered around two smaller tables pushed together.

“I wonder if that little man will be able to get any word out to the other countries,” Bossuet said. “Or you know - the best might be to get people out. The most trustworthy of our number out to gather allies.”

“That’s what Enjolras and I were doing when we were found by Montparnasse,” Grantaire said. “Trying to get out to Nalor, or Peraesea, and call on our political allies. They could hardly say no to use without breaking allegiances hundreds of years old.”

“Which is why I want to go,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire nearly spit up his eggs. “You want to WHAT now?”

“No,” Bahorel said. “It may be a good idea. Elus always had fabulous ties with other countries, and Prince Enjolras is a rousing speaker.”

“This better not be you trying to exact revenge for me choosing Feuilly to go on that mission,” Grantaire warned.

Bahorel boggled at him. Then he looked to Enjolras and something clicked into place for him. “Ah, I see. No, it’s not that at all, I just think that your _dear husband_ would have rousing success in gather allies and getting them to send armies to our aid.”

“I would,” Enjolras said. “I was trained to be a diplomat and a point for people to rally around - was always told it was my duty. And I feel that you’re people would do better with YOU here to serve as THEIR rallying point. They know you already. They love you. So you can stay and take care of things on the home front, and I will go out to bring people in to help us. I might as well put all of that training to use.”

“But you see, that involves you travelling out alone into unknown territory - “

“He wouldn’t be alone,” Cosette said. “I would go, and I’m sure we’d have a group coming with us.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. I don’t want you taking all of these risks alone.” Grantaire was just worried about him - anything could happen and Grantaire wouldn’t be there to help.

“Well I don’t want you talking to me like that,” Enjolras said coolly. “I can handle myself and if I choose to take this on, then I will, and you cannot tell me yes or no one way or another. I am not some porcelain doll - I have power, I can fight, I can strategize. I want to be useful to the fullest extent of my abilities and so everything I can.”

Grantaire sighed. “Then be useful here.”

“Here, underground? Hiding? Doing nothing? Do you not feel stagnant?” Enjolras looked around, and a couple of the others nodded.

“It’s true,” Joly said. “I feel as if we are doing quite a lot of sitting around and waiting. If we never take action, then nothing can ever change...it makes me feel as if we aren’t doing enough.”

The others seemed to be agreeing, and Grantaire felt a divide fall between him and the rest, heavy and dusty as an old curtain. It fell down roughly, with a loud _thump_ , stirring up dirt and getting into every nook-and cranny of his soul. It seemed that everyone, even Éponine, agreed with Joly and Enjolras that they, as a group, hadn’t been doing enough to move forardd.

Grantaire had thought they had been doing a good job. They sent people to the castle, had people guarding the temples, and kept roaming bands of two or three people to just keep an eye on things on the street. The queen had been rescued. His mother’s head removed. And now they had a contact at the castle, someone who may have power to help them beyond what they were capable of doing for the moment.

He had thought they were doing enough for now - it wasn’t as if they could jump right into storming the castle. But here were his comrades, his friends, talking about doing more, talking about feeling as if they had gotten nothing done. But that was something Grantaire was used to - what seemed overwhelming to him was never enough for the majority of people. 

So he sat back in his seat and let the conversation flow over him as he thought. Were they more motivated? Did they care more than him? Were they all more invested than him? But he was the prince. No one should care more than him.

Around him, talk went on. But all he could think about was the differences that always seemed to fall between him and other people. Everyone did more. Everyone went farther. Everyone tried harder.

And Grantaire was left to float behind, not even knowing he _was_ behind until others moved on without him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Action to come next time - guaranteed!


	21. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It hurts to write Grantaire sad, so I understand all of your comments all too well!

“If you’re angry with me, just say it,” Enjolras said that morning, after he had dressed in silence and left Grantaire laying in bed, staring at the ceiling. “You’ve been quiet and if it’s because of our little argument yesterday, just tell me.”

Yes, Grantaire had been quiet. But that was just because he was feeling...well now, he wasn’t feeling much at all. Last night, when he went to bed, he had been laying around with the thoughts of everyone’s dedication in his head, and how once again he was one step behind everybody else. It had left him feeling anxious and disgusted with himself last night.

But this morning, he felt nothing at all. In fact, as Enjolras spoke, Grantaire felt more as if he were watching the things in the room happen than experiencing them, which was something that used to happen to him frequently but hadn’t in quite some time. The back of his head was tingling and Enjolras sounded as if he were speaking through a mouth full of jelly - Grantaire could understand him, it was just a little muffled and far from his ears. “M’not mad at you,” he said. “Just tired.”

“Good, because it’s a ridiculous thing to mad about - I just want to help our country and -”

“Could we maybe not talk about that?” Grantaire asked. It was the LAST thing he wanted to think about. “I’m not mad, let’s leave it there.”

There were soft footsteps, then Enjolras’ face swimming above Grantaire’s - and somehow below it at the same time. His bow mouth was a line of concern. “Something’s off with you today. What’s wrong?”

He just shrugged. Grantaire had tried explaining these feelings - and this lack of feeling - before, but no one understood.”Just tired, I think.”

Enjolras sat on the edge of the bed. “I was going to go out with a couple others and see how the people who are watching the temples are doing. Down here can make me feel pretty cooped up and Claquesous is going to disguise us. Do you want to come?”

“Not really.”

“Getting out in the sun might make you feel better. It’s not good to be underground all of the time.” Enjolras reached forward and pushed some hair from Grantaire’s face. 

The last thing he really wanted to do was go out and see how committed everyone else was. See that they all were moving harder than him, that they all cared more. And honestly he didn’t think he could even get himself out of bed. It all was so tiring, honestly. Just breathing was a labor to him right now. “I don’t think I feel up to going, honestly.”

That hand came up again, but this time rested on Grantaire’s forehead. “At least come take a walk with me, then. Just something to get you moving - Claquesous’ disguises will last with us within two blocks of the house.”

With a sigh, Grantaire managed to get himself pushed up out of bed. “Fine. Let’s do it.”

**~~~**

Enjolras held his hand as they left the house. Their faces were obscured by a flash of Claquesous’ hand. They could see each other but had been rendered unnoticeable by that odd brand of magic. They were armed, but stealthily - being armed was punishable by death now. In a land so abundant in magic, what a stupid rule. It was a sunny day despite the sad surroundings of the city Grantaire had grown up in. “This place never used to seem so grey,” he said quietly as they walked. “Not even two months ago this city was bright and colourful, even down here. But everything is quiet…”

They passed by a posted notice about the “official” new religion of Aenorium Valoris. _Every loyal citizen shall submit to conversion to Andar, the true religion of the world,_ was printed along the top of it. “This is ridiculous,” Enjolras said. “I hope to find out more about this today.”

But Grantaire had no answer for him. They wandered to the edge of their two block radius. There were children littering the streets, wanting, begging, crying. Some had adults with them; some did not. This place had been thriving once. Now it was a swamp of corruption. Grantaire wished that it stirred something in his heart as if used to.

His heart was silent.

People seemed to look at them, then glance away and forget that they had even been there. Claquesous’ magic was powerful. It was an astonishing magic; Grantaire wished he had the energy to be amazed by it. But from the moment he woke up this morning, he had been drained of everything.

Still, he took the walk with Enjolras. They found a small park, which at one time had been beautiful. Now it seemed to be full of people who had already, so quickly, been removed from their homes. “Enjolras,” he asked. “How long has it been since the festival?”

“Not even a month,” he said with a sigh. “And already these people are suffering so…”

And there it was. With the cough of a child, a spark in Grantaire’s chest. It went out immediately and was very small, but it had been there. These people were suffering, and he had to help. Even if he didn’t want to. Even if he felt like death on two legs. Even if he felt like it was pointless because he was so far behind everyone else.

Even if he felt nothing, these people were relying on him. And Grantaire would push past it. If he could.

He and Enjolras had to leave the park. Grantaire squeezed his hand, and remembered what he had said. That Grantaire could talk to him.

“Enjolras…” he said softly. “I was quiet because I am...not upset, but. Realizing. I realized something that I have to realize every so often…”

His words fell to the ground like bricks.

“Does everyone think that we were not doing enough?” he finally asked. “Everyone seemed so in agreement, but. Well, I thought we had been doing well, until everyone started in on how little we had actually gotten done. I didn’t think we were doing that terrible of a job, but. Last night everyone else seemed to think so.”

“That’s what’s bothering you?” Enjolras asked. He squeezed Grantaire’s hand and knocked their shoulders together.

“It is...but it’s not just that. All of it made me feel like I was behind everyone else. I always have that problem. I picked up riding last among my friends. It took me too long to learn to read or write. When we got older I had no interest in bedding anyone while my friends already had notches in their belts. And even with you, it feels like I’m falling behind in being in love with my husband. Then last night, I felt as if I was slow to the gate again, in realizing that maybe we weren’t doing enough.” It was something that was always lurking in him, but that he liked to push away, pretend wasn’t there.

Grantaire looked up to the bright blue sky. “I don’t like feeling that way. As a prince, you’d think I wouldn’t. I have a good life. A good childhood. But sometimes I feel as if everyone lives so far ahead of me. And when those sorts of feelings get too much, I...stop. I stop feeling things. I don’t feel sorrow, or anger, or happiness. I just sort of exist without experiencing anything. It’s happened since I was little. If something terrible happens, or if someone says the wrong thing, or I’m alone too much, or sometimes there’s no catalyst. I just wake up and feel nothing.”

Enjolras stopped walking; Grantaire kept moving. He was pulled back by the hand wrapped around his, until Enjolras had enveloped him in an embrace. Grantaire took a moment to process the touch and slowly raised his arms to return it. “You don’t even feel like eating,” he offered. “Or getting out of bed. Cleaning up, or leaving your room.”

He turned, ever so slightly, to rest his chin on Enjolras’ head. But there was another feeling. Or two feelings, mixed together - awe, that someone understood, and disappointment, that it was Enjolras. A man who had been through so much didn’t deserve to have this sort of thing happen to him, too. Grantaire nodded against his hair. “And you’re not interested in what you usually liked to do. Painting, or reading.”

“Horseback riding or visiting ruins,” Enjolras muttered. “I am sorry that you have had to deal with this. It does not make life easy to go through everything in a fog. But it doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you.”

“How can it mean anything else? I’ve never met a person before who even began to understand what I’ve been talking about.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re wrong. It doesn’t mean I’m wrong. It just means a couple more hurdles to clear.” Enjolras cupped Grantaire’s shoulder blades, standing on dirty cobblestones. “That’s it.”

“But I’m so tired of jumping,” Grantaire admitted in a whisper.

“One hurdle at a time,” he said, tilting his face up. Enjolras stood taller to kiss him once. “I’ll be here to knock them down.

“And you don’t need to fall in love with me,” he said after a second kiss. “Do you remember what you told me? That you and I needn’t be anything. We are just ourselves, two lost princes. Enjolras and Grantaire. We do not need a title for what we are to each other. We are comforts to each other. We are friends. We are married. I do not want you to feel any stress over you and I, or what we may be. You don’t have to fall in love with me right now. It doesn’t mean you’re behind. I don’t even believe in ‘behind’ when it comes to people. You have your pace as I have mine. I think you’re right where you need to be. And you’re right - we’ve done a lot. I am just an impatient fool, and no one wants to sit around forever.

“I am very sorry that you felt as if we were all running off in front of you. I don’t want to do that. I want to be by your side. Step by step, alright?”

“Alright,” Grantaire murmured. He didn’t know what to make of anything Enjolras had said. But he knew that he appreciated every word. “Thank you for being so nice to me.”

“You don’t need to thank me. We’re here for each other. You are my comfort, and I will be yours.” Another kiss this time, longer, drawn out. Grantaire relaxed, just a little, but the stiffness is in his very bones.

The kiss was nice; the connection he felt was even better.

There was a clatter down the street, and Grantaire pulled from the kiss. He tightened his grip on Enjolras’ waist as they stood still, listening. Anything could be the source of that sound, and they were disguised, hidden. But one never knew. Enjolras pushed him back a little bit, into a small alcove that gave them a modicum of cover.

The clattering got louder, and voices joined in. Just two. Grantaire peeked out of the alcove and saw two people come around the corner, dressed in cobbled together pieces of armor from the castle, helmets on their heads. Clattering caused by the very armor his guards used to wear. Where were the people who used to own that armor?

The two were laughing, talking as they walked. “I hate rounds,” one said, rolling her shoulders. “It’s so bring out here in the middle of nowhere. At least in the other areas of the city people are fighting. That temple in the center of the city is a bloodbath.”

Enjolras gripped Grantaire’s wrist.

The other guard laughed. “It sure is! Maybe we can switch shifts with someone later if it’s all still going on! I really wanna prove myself to our lady - she’ll promote me like crazy if I impress her. And if I wanna be a rich man one day, I gotta get up there.”

“Oh shove off!” the female guard said, slapping his back. “You only impress Lady Thénardier if you have a handsome face and long, thick hair.”

“Well I can’t blame her! You seen that thumb of a husband she has!” More laughter from the both of them. They were getting closer now, and Grantaire turned to Enjolras; he caught on right away and they pretended to be in conversation. 

The guards glanced at them as they passed, but kept going. Bless this disguise magic. “What will REALLY impress her is volunteering to go South and cut off that army coming up this way. Did you hear about them?”

“Of course I did!” As the guards spoke, Grantaire and Enjolras shared a look. “They say that it’s growing with each city they pass, so you’d be an idiot to go down there. I saw we let them come in and ambush them. Not that I think they can DO - the resistance here is so pathetic that even a small army won’t be enough to help them!”

They turned down a corner, and the last thing Grantaire could hear was the male guard. “I don’t know about that - the weirdo with the plants KILLED someone with BEE STINGS…”

They waited just a minute to make sure no one was coming back, then Enjolras jumped out of the alcove and ran for the house, dragging Grantaire behind him.

**~~~**

“We’ll send out scouts,” Bahorel said the moment that Enjolras and Grantaire were done telling their story. “Even if it’s not true, or if there’s not that many people, we have to get anyone who’s there to safety. And if they are an actual army...well. We need that too.”

Cosette was wringing her small hands in her lap. “They come from the South; they’re most likely Elusian. Do you think that either of the kings made it all of the way down there?”

“I dare not hope,” Enjolras said. “I have been wondering if perhaps it’s not...well, your father, Cosette. He has never stood for injustice and is probably worried sick about you. He would come all of this way.”

“Oh, I’ve been trying to not think of him - I don’t want to be disappointed when he doesn’t show up,” Cosette sighed. Éponine patted her shoulder lightly, almost awkwardly.

Grantaire rolled his neck; the cracking sound was satisfying. After their adventure, he was still experiencing a lack of feeling, but the fog surrounding him was not as thick. Sometimes a jolt to the system would do that - clear things up for a little while. “It will be a help if ANYONE arrives. Anyone who can help. Those in the castle are already aware, maybe even mobilizing.”

“Are we going to?” asked a young woman, no older than sixteen. She was some merchant’s daughter, but as Grantaire made a point of valuing everyone’s opinion - and the others did too - all conversation stopped as she approached from the side. A group of people about her age were standing there, and looked like she was their elected spokesperson. “Because we want to go. We want to volunteer to go out and bring this army here.”

Enjolras smiled, eyes proud. “That’s brave of you all. You look Elusian yourself.”

“Yes, your highness. From the Northern border. I know that area well, and I think I would be a good asset, with this group. We all want to go, save our parents or anyone elderly from having to do it,” the girl said.

Éponine nodded, and she seemed impressed. “Then you’ll go. We’ll arm you all, and plan for the outage. Thank you for your service. Just remember - be safe. If you are in danger at any time, come back.”

“We don’t want to lose any of you,” Grantaire said. “And when any parents come crying to us about your safety,we’ll remind them that you demanded it of us.”

She laughed a little, then bowed and darted off to tell her friends. Grantaire turned his eyes to Éponine. “Some of them were hardly older than Gavroche.”

“And?”

“And you let them go with no question,” he said. He was teasing, but in his current state Grantaire wasn’t sure if it came across. “Yet with Gavroche…”

“Simple. Those young people are not my little brother,” Éponine almost snapped. “Listen, I’m letting them all help. We sure need it.”

Well, that was an understatement. Even Grantaire could see that. His biggest concern was running out of food, however. They had a limited supply that they were able to bring in, and a good many people to feed. Maybe that was something he could try to take on, get himself out of this crevice. 

Yet he fell silent, watching Enjolras talk with Cosette. That man had been through so much. So very much. And he suffered with whatever this was that kept Grantaire living in the dark too much of the time. One would never know it to look at him. Grantaire felt as if his own shadows and failures lived plastered on his face, a loud alarm warning all who came near.

Take caution: this man is a walking disaster.

But Enjolras had no such problem. Enjolras looked well put together, in control of himself. He looked like someone who knew who he was and believed in that identity.

That made sense - with Enjolras, if he didn’t believe in his identity, no one else would either. Grantaire hated that. Thankfully no one in the resistance was stupid enough to fight about it. Except Enjolras’ mother, but she was hardly part of the resistance, she was just sitting around. Was she so lazy at home? Could a queen _be_ lazy? He had no clue what she was even like as a queen, or in the South. What had their castle even looked like?

He had to take a deep breath; his thoughts were racing. Take a deep breath - and a deep drink - and just calm down.

This spiral was getting old very quickly. Hopefully something would end it soon.

“Grantaire, what do you think?”

He took a moment to even register that someone was talking to him. It was Bahorel. When had he sat down there? “Hmm?”

Bahorel watched him with those careful eyes. “Cosette said that she thought it would be a good idea to increase foot traffic to the South of here for the next couple days. You want to help me organize that?”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” He needed to pay more attention. “That’s a good idea - the Mendirians will probably be out, and then if anyone branches off from that army, we might be able to find them.”

“Exactly,” Cosette chirped.

“Darling, you will be promoted to royal advisor when things are settled,” Grantaire said, trying to push light into his voice.

Éponine laughed. “Are you going to offer to marry her too?”

“Yes.”

“That’s too bad,” Cosette said, leaning against Enjolras’ shoulder. “In fact, you must separate from Enjolras, because he proposed to me long before you came around. We were 9, and he asked me to marry him, Of course I said yes.”

“Who could say no?” Grantaire asked. Enjolras hunched his shoulders, embarrassed. But Grantaire thought it was sweet.

“Can we get back to business?” Enjolras asked, tossing his hair. “I still want to go out and see how things are at the temples - especially if people are out there fighting as we were told.”

“I’ll go,” said a velvet voice from the corners. Montparnasse had been quiet. “Patron-Minette will make the rounds for the temples.”

Patron-Minette was the name given to Montparnasse and his circle that had brought Grantaire and Enjolras to Éponine to begin with. They were apparently a group of thugs for hire who also worked as mercenaries, bounty hunters - anything anyone would pay them to do. Grantaire knew that his city was home to those types of people; he never thought he would meet them. Or even grow to like them, as he did with Montparnasse. The man had style, and his dark humour was just the sort to make Grantaire laugh.

But Montparnasse had been a wreck with Jehan gone - and when he heard that someone was fighting with bees at one of the temples, he had swept off into the shadows to brood. Éponine, however, seemed suspicious. “We have no extra coin for your services, ‘Parnasse.”

“A gift,” he said, before standing up. He snapped his fingers in the air and moved to the doors; the others followed quickly.

“That was...deceivingly simple,” Éponine said. “But I will not fight a good thing.”

Grantaire waved his hand. “If he wants payment later, the crown will bear the burden. If we can - who knows what’s happening in our treasure rooms. Everything’s probably being sold or sent to Mendir.”

“The finances worry me, too,” Enjolras said. “We will have a lot to fix and if funds aren’t enough...I don’t know. Let’s just worry about taking the throne back first. The rest will come in time.”

Everyone seemed able to agree on that. Grantaire fell into conversation with Bahorel about guard schedules and who to send when, but more than anything his mind was drifting off into space.

**~~~**

Two days. For two days, they searched for signs of the army. For two days, parents worried about the young people that had been sent out to meet said army. For two days, those who were protecting the temples came back, and others went to take their place. For two days, some people never came home. For two days, no one saw Patron-Minette, but heard rumors of shadows that lived, shadows that killed Mendirian guards before they could even draw their swords against those who rose up against them.

For two days, Grantaire floated in a sea of fog. He worked. He let Enjolras bring him up to the balcony at night. He lay in bed with Enjolras, arms wrapped tight around him to chase away nightmares from either of them. And he mostly just existed.

For two days, Grantaire just existed.

**~~~**

It was Gavroche who got him out of the house. With a delivery of helmets from the guard’s warehouse that would enable them to leave without Claquesous, and with one sentence.

“They’ve burned the family portrait of you and your parents - Father says that you don’t have a chance of beating him and they wanted to send a message.”

That family portrait had been done when he was only 7. It was large - it could take up a whole wall - and done by an artist that had traveled by foot over mountain and desert to reach them from Zotolya. Grantaire had loved that painting. All three of them had looked radiant, his mother beautiful, his father strong, himself innocent.

And now it was gone.

So Grantaire lowered a helmet over his curls before stepping out into the twilight hours. Enjolras was at his right, Bahorel at his left. Cosette was with them, and Bossuet. It felt good for Grantaire to see a purpose for himself again, to feel as if the current was no longer pushing him along. 

They were not storming the castle, as much as Grantaire would have liked to. No, with Gavroche had arrived another message - an army had indeed been spotted, marching towards the city in numbers reaching to two hundred. They must have been using a cloaking spell some of the time, because no one had made contact with them. 

But they would recognize their princes, and this silence could be broken. Grantaire felt a pang in his chest as he swung onto his mount; was Bijoux alright? She was clearly his horse, and he worried that alone would mean a death sentence for her. He hoped that her powerful gait and strong muscles would keep her from the slaughterhouse. 

The search party left in five different directions, with the goal of meeting up at well-known hatter’s shop on the border of the city. Anyone who was not there by the appointed time would be left behind, presumably to shake off anyone who was trailing them. Grantaire was the third of the party to leave, and headed for the West first. It was difficult to not keep going West and then duck North - that would lead him directly to the castle. He was capable of using self control, however, and stuck to the route he had planned out with others.

What was harder than ignoring his basic urges to go home, however, turned out to be the people. Riding West brought him to some more affluent areas of the city.

And what he saw disgusted him. As he had seen suffering and pain before, now he saw a privileged few benefitting from immediate kowtowing to the Medirians. It was not widespread. In fact, a good many houses were boarded up, with grass that was brown and too long. But the houses that were still occupied with glorious, golden, shining. Each of them flew the flag of Mendir. A few people waved to Grantaire as he passed, which confused him until he remembered that he was wearing a guard’s helmet. They thought him one of them. Grantaire made a note to try and remember these house - when things were back as they should be, he would find these families and see what brought them to betray him so quickly.

He was grateful to not be riding through the slums, however - he didn’t know if he could have stopped himself from getting off of his horse and trying to help. He may not have had the passion some others had, but he still cared about his people and wanted to help them. And as he did not want to risk being recognized by anyone in the city, not even allies outside of the resistance. It was best that the Mendirians did not know if he was even in the city at all. Keep them in the dark. Plus, any of his citizens could possibly be tortured for information, if it was thought that they knew anything. He would not put them in that danger.

Grantaire moved quickly, hoping to avoid one other thing - true castle guards. He knew that some of the guards had stayed on at the castle. Not through any facts, just suspicions. When it was die or work for the enemy, Grantaire didn’t think he could fault anyone for choosing life. Some may have been forced into it. There was also a chance that maybe, just maybe, there were more who did as the guards seen with Queen Yseult had done - pretended to switch sides to infiltrate the enemy. He made a mental note to ask Gavroche if he could find that out. His last report said that Feuilly and Chetta were doing well, with letter from each detailing what they had learned. Grantaire was pleased that they were doing well, but hoped that they would be able to leave soon; it could not be safe there.

His mind was wandering again. The guards. Either the guards that had stayed for any reason would recognize him as their Prince, which he did not want, or the Mendirian guards would not recognize him as their own, which he also did not want.

Spotting that hatter’s shop, with its bright yellow facade, was a relief. It was just about on the outskirts of the city, put people travelled all over the world for these hats.

Grantaire had never seen it so terrifyingly empty.

Not empty. Enjolras was waiting there, and Bossuet, both on opposite ends of the block. As they were both still mounted, Grantaire did not leave his horse either. He took up a spot down the street from Enjolras, where he was still visible. There was not a long wait until, one by one, two more sets of hooves clapping against the ground signified the arrival of Cosette, then Bahorel. Grantaire waited until Enjolras signalled - flicking his visor up, then down - before heading South. 

Grantaire made sure that he could see at least one of them at every turn, but they tried to keep as far from each other as possible until they reached the sandy, rocky terrain of the South. As the larger buildings were left behind them, they joined up. There was more activity out here. Without the presence of the guards, people felt freer to do as they wished. Grantaire traded his helmet for the hood of his cloak, and after a moment Enjolras did the same.

“There could still be enemies out here,” Bossuet pointed out. But it didn’t seem a warning - more an observation.

Things were quiet for a good long time, long enough that Grantaire wondered if they shouldn’t fan out.

Once they reached the last of the true neighborhoods, and houses were more dots in the distance than anything else, Grantaire heard the sounds of a battle. Not the roar of one full waging, but a few sword, the rush of magic, the smell of sulfur as if at the end of a skirmish. Wordlessly, each rider pushed their horse into a gallop towards the sound.

The battle revealed itself as they rounded the crest of a large hill. Hundreds of people - on foot, on horseback, some in the air - were in the last dregs of battle. The most widespread colour was red, but not of blood - the red mixed with the white of the Elusian flag. It was flying high in banners, on the livery of horses, in florets pinned to jackets and painted on armor. Enjolras stood in his saddle, scanning the crowd for anything, anyone familiar. For a crown, presumably.

Then there was a rumbling as something large was lifted into the air. At first, Grantaire thought it was a spell, because the item being hoisted upwards was a boulder that would have been cramped in their largest ballroom. It was dropping dirt and roots - had that thing been pulled out of the ground? Then it started to move in slow, disjointed motions towards the remains of what Grantaire assumed was the Mendirian army.

Cosette whimpered beside him and slipped off of her horse as the boulder was suddenly catapulted through the air. There were screams as the Mendirians scattered, leaving behind weapons, armor, and their dead. There was a flash beside him, and grantaire whipped his head to the side just in time to see Cosette take off running down the hill. 

“Wait!” he called out, just as the boulder hit the ground. Cosette tumbled to the ground with the force of the impact - as did a good many people at the bottom of the hill - and her horse took off, spooked. But the other horses, grounded by their riders did not budge. “Cosette!”

“No, don’t worry,” Enjolras said, sliding off his horse as the very planet trembled beneath them. “That’s her father!”

Then he was off and running, too. Down the hill, Cosette had picked herself back up and was moving again, towards the crowd. Attention was turning towards them, then a large man - the tallest Grantaire had ever seen, and that was from a distance - broke from the crowd at a dead run. Halfway up the hill, he swept Cosette into his arms, raising her three feet off of the ground. He picked Enjolras up just as easy when he got there, with no sign of strain. He could hear laughter and calling out from the three of them, and from the army below as they realized what was going on. But above it all, Enjolras and Cosette’s happy voices rang throughout the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so much longer than I expected lol. But thanks for reading!


	22. Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some definite violence in this one.

Grantaire was introduced to the Duke of Montreuil, Jean Valjean, only briefly before the man was off and about with his people, checking for wounded, checking for surviving enemies. While Cosette was at his side, Enjolras moved off the other way through the crowd. These were his people, Elusian, and Grantaire thought that the sight of him was more rousing to them than any healing could be. He moved around the edge of the crowd as best he could, looking out on the horizon for any sign of Mendirians or their own people. 

“Prince Hercule, I would gather,” came a friendly voice from behind him, too chipper for all of the blood around them. He had taken his helmet off and so should have assumed that he would be more recognizable. Grantaire turned to see a man with a warm smile on his face, which was framed by coiled, reddish-brown hair. He was in the fashion of the South and seemed nimble, jumping over rocks and fallen weapons to get to him. The man gave a fluid bow, sweeping the hat from his head in the process. Had he kept that hat on all during a battle? He bounced back to his feet and clapped Grantaire on the shoulder as if they were old bosom friends. “My name is Courfeyrac, your highness, and I have to say - it’s a relief to run into you all. We’ve been travelling a long time - some of these people longer than me! - and I just can’t tell you how pleased I am to be at the end of this journey!”

He was so friendly that, for a moment, Grantaire didn’t know what to say. “O-oh. Yes, it’s a weight off of our shoulders to have found you. Did you ever run into any of the search parties we sent out for you?”

“A group of young people just this morning, we sent them off to warn you of our arrival; they left immediately!” He gestured to the same direction Grantaire had ridden in from. “They said you needed us quite badly!”

“We do,” Grantaire admitted. “Let’s get everyone to safety before any of that, though - you all have been travelling for far too long, it sounds like.”

“Indeed we have!” Courfeyrac said. “But it will be worth it! If we can drive these tyrants from our lands, then it will all be worth it!”

**~~~**

The entire day had been spent by the time everyone had been brought in. Each room of the brothel and house - even the spaces upstairs - was full. Only the Queen, then Enjolras and Grantaire, had room to spare. In her state - which was no better, she only yelled and screamed at anyone who came in - it was impossible for Queen Yseult to have anyone else in there, and despite their offers, no one would take quarter in Enjolras and Grantaire’s room.

Enjolras sat next to Grantaire on Bahorel’s cot, leaning against his arm. “I cannot believe Sir Valjean is here,” he said. “That man...he’s what every man should strive to be. He took in a prostitute’s daughter when no one else would, brought her up in joy and love. Sometimes I suspect he knew of everything that went on the castle walls, because when life was hard, he would whisk myself and Cosette away to his manor on the beach. It was he who taught me to hunt, to fight, to ride. He is a good, good man.”

“Then I am glad he’s here.” Some of that Southern army had not survived to this point, but the bulk had, and nearly everyone was ready to contribute that to Sir Valjean. Grantaire was hoping for the chance to speak with him properly. 

In fact, he seemed to have some power beyond that unbelievable strength, because he was in Queen Yseult’s rooms, and there was no screaming coming from behind the door. Despite the crowds, things seemed calmer. The room was heavy, busy, but for once, no one seemed to be paying them much attention. Even royalty disappeared in a crowd like this. Grantaire took a moment to put his arm around Enjolras. He wanted to make a point of checking in on him. “How are you otherwise?”

“I’m tired,” Enjolras said. “But hopeful, now. More than before. How are you?”

“Tired,” he said. “Worn out. Ready for it to be over.”

“Me too,” Enjolras said. He kissed Grantaire’s jawline. “Once everything is settled in our country, however long it takes, I want to take you on vacation. My family owns an island in the Southern Carrowa’an Sea where wild stallions run free, there are waterfalls so clear they look carved from glass, and flowers so beautiful that artists will pay nearly anything for their pigmentation.”

That Enjolras, who had suffered so much, wanted to take _him_ on vacation, touched Grantaire very deeply. Maybe more so than some people would have been touched. But the small statement struck a chord in Grantaire, one that made him take Enjolras’ lips on his own.

“Oh,” said a deep voice from behind them. Grantaire broke the kiss and saw Sir Valjean standing just behind them. When had he gotten there? He was so large but moved as silently as a cat. “Forgive me, your highnesses. I was just hoping to talk to you, Pri - “

“Stop with that,” Enjolras said, standing up. “I have never been something so distant as a prince to you. I am yours to speak with as you will. Excuse me, Grantaire.”

He watched them walk away, Sir Valjean leading them towards the stairs. Grantaire pushed himself to his feet and made a couple rounds of the building, talking to people here and there, and asking a question that had been lingering under the surface since they found the army.

But no one had any answers when he asked, _“Have there been any sightings of King Heitor?”_ save for looks that seemed awkward and hushed voices that seemed scared. It was as if his father had simply disappeared from the face of the Earth.

**~~~**

He had found Courfeyrac in the armory, polishing weapons and putting some aside to be repaired, apparently taking the task on of his own accord. Grantaire joined him and found the man to be charming and friendly. It didn’t take long for Bossuet and Joly, both of whom seemed to need the distraction, met up with them. The four of them got along swimmingly, finding out that Courfeyrac had been a legal advisor in the largest city in Elus, then joined up with the army as Sir Valjean passed through. According to Courfeyrac, the Mendirians had less power in the South, choosing to concentrate their efforts on the new capital city in the North. It was good to hear that things were not to the same level of destruction all over the country. 

“It’s been hard to keep up morale as we travelled,” Courfeyrac said, examining a heavy battle axe. “Especially after battles, bandits, illness. It’s been a long trip, felt much longer than the week we were on the road. And then…”

At the way he trailed off, Grantaire exchanged a look with Joly. “And then what?”

“The Duke is the one to tell Prince Enjolras, he wanted to make sure of that. I would hate to step on his toes,” Courfeyrac said.

Grantaire noticed that Courfeyrac was no longer meeting his gaze. “They’re together now,” he said. “Sir Valjean took Enjolras for a private conversation just before I came in here.”

Courfeyrac sighs. “Then he will already know,

“We found King Daxton’s body in a ditch along the coastline. He hadn’t been dead long, and Sir Valjean recognized him right away. It looked as if he had been killed and robbed by bandits - he was wearing just peasant’s clothing. I assume he had been in disguise or hiding and had been killed without the killers knowing who it was...that’s just a guess, but it seems to hold up.” He shrugged.

Grantaire leapt to his feet, muttering, “Pardon me,” as he stumbled over a pile of sheaths and out of the room. 

He needed to find Enjolras.

**~~~**

It was Sir Valjean he found first, standing outside of Enjolras and Grantaire’s bedroom. “Judging by the look on your face, son,” he said as Grantaire came up. “You’ve heard.”

“From Courfeyrac,” Grantaire said. “Does Enjolras know? How is he taking it?”

“He seemed to expect it,” Sir Valjean. “It was the last possible news I wanted to bring to him, and weighs heavy on my shoulders. But it must weigh heavier on his. He’s in the bedroom now.”

“Thank you, sir.” Grantaire shook hands with this man, who he could already tell was in every way a superior man to himself. “I am sure that from you, who Enjolras speaks so highly of, the news was easier to bear.”

And then he was knocking once on the door and in the room.

Enjolras was sitting at the desk, calmly writing something. Had this happened even two weeks earlier, Grantaire would not have known Enjolras well enough to see the tension in his shoulders, how rigid his back was, the discoloration of his knuckles as he gripped the quill too hard. But now they were closer. Grantaire knew the signs of anguish in Enjolras very well by now.

“I’m writing to him,” Enjolras said as Grantaire locked the door behind him. “I am writing a letter to my dead father, letting him know that I miss him. I started it before; I knew he was dead, Grantaire. I knew that I would never see him again.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier,” Grantaire said.

“No it does not.

“He d-doesn’t know that I forgave him.” Enjolras’ quill snapped in half in his grip; ink splattered over the desk, the parchment, his hand. He didn’t seem to notice. “And he never will. He will never know that I don’t blame him. He couldn’t protect me and also protect himself. He had a country to run. I forgive him, Grantaire, I f-forgive him…”

Grantaire wrapped his arms around Enjolras from behind and let him cry it out. He didn’t know what to do or what to say. Memories swam to the surface, of Enjolras holding him in the fan shop basement, just keeping him close while his emotions ran their course.

He could do the same. So he held Enjolras tight to his chest and let the man cry for all that had been lost.

**~~~**

Darkness always creeps back in. That night, Granatire woke in the dark, lying on his stomach, Enjolras half tucked under him, sleeping the sleep that only comes after a long bought of crying. He was thinking of King Daxton’s body, which Sir Valjean had reported they buried under a tree where it could be recovered later. Grantaire ran his hand over the new ring on Enjolras’ finger, a heavy ruby in gold that someone had shrunk down enough to fit on his thumb. It had been his father’s, one of the few things brought from the castle when Sir Valjean had decided to make the trip. He looked over at another such item, sitting on the desk,a rare thing to bring but something that most have had emotional value for Enjolras - a carved cow figurine on wheels with a lead, meant for pulling around. When things did not feel so suffocating, he would ask.

But Grantaire didn’t think that he ever breath freely again. He was in mourning. For his mother. For King Daxton. For his own father, who he presumed dead after no one had seen a single sign of him since the cloak. Even that discovery felt as if it had been made years ago.

There were three main questions in his mind. 

The first was, “Why does Queen Yseult get to live?” Why was she allowed to live, a monster of a woman, when his pure, honest mother died, when Enjolras mourned the loss of his father so terribly? When there were good people all over this country that were dying in this war, why did someone who was, Grantaire believed, so evil get to live?

The second question was, “Why do some people get to keep their family and others don’t?” Why did Cosette get to have her father returned to her? Why was Éponine allowed to have her siblings returned her? Did Grantaire wish that these things hadn’t happen? No. Of course not. But the jealousy was almost painful.

The final question was “Does entertaining thoughts such as these make one a bad person?”

Grantaire didn’t know. He did not feel badly for wishing that King Daxton had lived and Queen Yseult had not. He did not feel badly for wishing that he, too, could have his family rebuilt for him.

But he felt like a bad person anyways.

**~~~**

Perhaps it was a blessing to be interrupted in the early hours of the morning - a distraction to push away the shadows that wanted to creep back over grantaire once again, so quickly. He had not fallen asleep with then were a loud knocking on their bedroom door. 

As Enjolras groaned at the sound, Grantaire swung himself out of bed. He opened the door to see an exhausted looking, sweating Feuilly. Behind them, a few others seemed to rouse, but Grantaire had no eyes for anyone else. If Feuilly was back from the castle and waking them immediately, this was urgent. In fact, they almost fell into his arms in their haste to tell Granatire what they were there to tell.

“The Thénardiers are on the move,” they heaved, clearly out of breath. Had they run the whole way here? “Once they heard about the arrival of the army, they wanted to go back to Mendir, to safety. They’re leaving for the boat in t-two hours, every servant in the castle was roused to help - they’re taking things in the treasury, and they’re leaving…”

“No they are not,” Grantaire said, voice rising with his ire. “They are not going to cause all of this trouble then run away with their tails between their legs. I want them here. Things will not get better just because they are gone, and if we cut off the head then the whole beast dies. They are the top contenders to lead Mendir? A defeat will destroy their chances, and once they are in irons the castle will fall to us again! We will mobilize, we will destroy their boats if need be - no, it is a necessity, we WILL destroy their boats, all of them - we will send them CRAWLING back to their dens and smoke them out under OUR terms. This is NOT their land to desert!

“They are not going to leave us with their mess.”

There was a brief pause, then someone clapped for him. Those who were awake started to clap as well. Soon enough everyone on the floor was awake, some clapping, some wondering why they were clapping until they were told.

And behind him, Enjolras was clapping as well. Grantaire didn’t know why. He had just been speaking with Feuilly. But others had heard, and they had liked what they had heard. So Grantaire would let them have it. They could take it as a rallying speech if they wanted, if they needed.

Grantaire was ready to make his move.

**~~~**

Before sunlight, the troops moved out. The army from the South was tired, but they had been healed, fed, had a little rest, and insisted they were ready. Everyone who was able was ready to take a stand. Even Patron-Minette had returned, saying that all guard had disappeared from the temples, which meant one thing - the Thénardiers were leaving with a full guard on their side.

But what was a guard against an army?

They rode out in the grey-gold hours of the morning, Bahorel taking the front with one of the horses. Grantaire rode in the middle of the pack, hidden, with Enjolras to one side of him and Éponine on the other. The royals both wore their crowns. This was for one thing - the surprise factor. They did not want to tip their hand so easily. In fact, the unexpected sight of any of them might cause enough distraction that they could do one thing - destroy their ships.

If they could capture the Thénardiers, that would be ideal, but Grantaire would rather do that once they took the castle - no part of him wanted to lure Mendirian forces to their headquarters. So they would aim for the ships instead of the people...but if there was a chance to capture anybody, well. They would be foolish to miss that chance.

So those three remained as hidden weapons. Things were known - do not harm castle servants. Do not harm children. And salvage the treasures. 

On this morning, they were not hiding. They did not hide, did not sneak, did not stay in shadows. The army rode out open, strong, brave, on horseback, on foot, with those who could fly in the air. Grantaire tried to see all he could, but from the middle of that group of people, it was difficult to see much at all of his beloved home. 

At an agreed upon point, the army split into three factions. One to circle the castle from the South and come up on the Western side, in case the Thénardiers tried to head to the beach and take the coastline up to the port. Another to circle the castle from the North, to cut of their most direct path to the port. Then the last to come up directly behind the castle in case the travelers left from the back and tried to circle around themselves.

Enjolras took the South, Éponine the middle route, leaving Grantaire with the Northern path. As they got closer to the castle - close enough that he could see it, the peaks and points glinting in the early morning sunlight. His heart ached for home. But even once he was living within those beautiful walls again, nothing would ever be the same. He better start accepting that now.

As if able to tell that his thoughts were turning darker again, someone up front started up the Ketorian national anthem. It grew in volume as those who knew the words caught on and raised their voices as well. Grantaire sang as loudly as any of them. And when the Southerners did the Elusian anthem, he sang that as well. One day Aenorium Valoris would have their own song to belt on the way to glorious battle.

Let these people know who was coming for them.

And things were going will. All the guard must have been with the Thénardiers, because there was no one on the street to stop them. Some people watch from windows, shouting praise or warnings.

A couple people even joined them.

Just as they made a loop, to turn towards the port at the Northern part of the city, one of their number fell out of the air. She had been airborne, working as a lookout, and then she fell. The whole army stopped, scrambling to get to her, put it was pointless; her body hit the cobblestones with a sickening crack, and this, Granatire could see perfectly well - an arrow was sticking out of her neck.

“Go!” he shouted. Someone dropped from the ranks to pull her body to the side, but everyone else surged forward at double, triple speed.

If they were firing, then the battle had begun. 

From horseback, Grantaire unsheathed his sword. It was not his usual broadsword, which was also waited at his hip to be brandished - this was his sword meant for use on horseback, one handed. All around him, other weapons were drawn, magic was summoned, battle cries were called out.

It was energizing. Even when the first of the Mendirian guards made their attacks - some from rooftops, some from the street - it did not slow Grantaire down. In fact, the start of the battle invigorated him. 

They pushed forward as more guards came from every side. Grantaire was glad to be in the middle, because he did not want to risk facing battle against one of his friends forced to be in this army. He just kept his eyes forward, on the bright white sails of the harbor. They were not as close as he would like to be, but his chosen core of soldiers pushed forward through the battle, which grew by the second. Grantaire had twenty of them with him, meaning to meet up with Bahorel and his twenty at the front to ride to the port. 

Not that battle was avoidable. Grantaire was letting his left rest in the hands of those around him as he spent a good amount of attention on swirling his hand in the air to create a flattened whirlpool of wind, hoping to deflect any attacks from the air. 

The screams in the air grew along with the smell of blood, the choke of smoke, and the buzz of magic residue in the air. Flames danced past, water seeped over them in controlled rivers, lightning singed the very air itself. Grantaire was sure he saw Montparnasse in the crowd, on foot; his ungloved hand found the bare beck of enemy neck and Grantaire looked away; he did not want to know what that man could do to human flesh. 

From far away, there was a piercing scream, the highest note in a soprano's arsenal. While the sound gave pause to some, he hear some soldiers behind him holler in delight. “The Lark!” one shouted, and Grantaire recalled Cosette’s ability. “She sings for us!”

Those who heard took up the war call as Grantaire and his team - sans Bahorel and his handpicked soldiers - burst into the port. The docks were insanely busy and had at one point, been lined with guards. Now all of those guards were engaged in battle. One of the other parties, Grantaire couldn’t tell which, had made it there before them. There was a ruckus in the far corner of the port, and Granatire heard a wolf’s growl.

Éponine was there. And he assumed that if she was over there, her family was as well. At least her parents; more than anything Grantaire hoped that Gavroche and the other children were safe. He signaled to his party to push towards that busy corner of the port.

Of course they would not go unnoticed. Before they were even halfway there, one of Grantaire’s party was pulled from horseback by slimy tentacles and pulled, screaming, into the shadows of a building. “TEAR IT TO THE GROUND!” Grantaire shouted. Whatever - whoever - was in that building had to be taken out. “GET IT OUT OF THERE!”

Five of his team split off, one already hurling bolts of ice towards the building. The rest, still surrounding Grantaire, took on the task of pushing through the amount of guards and making towards those wolfish snarls. They passed by the entrance to the docks, where Grantaire saw Bahorel, hunched over and terrifying with his full magic on display - spikes of bone emerging along his spine, along his arms, curling up from his skulls as horns, and clenched in his hands to be thrown as javelins. He was wearing his own armor, which had been designed with panels that only opened from the inside to let him transform without destroying the armor every time, and he looked horrifying. Which was what they needed, because someone was still tasked with trying to load carts full of treasure onto the boats. 

Bahorel and his team were putting an effective stop to that.

Grantaire lifted his sword as a group of Mendirians attacked, and all was lost to the battle. He pushed himself as much as he could, using blade and magic to fell enemy after enemy. A sword ran through his upper leg; the man who did it lost his head to another’s sword.

That head slumped to ground and, for just a moment, it was his mother’s. The battle raged around him but he was frozen, watching that head roll , his mind superimposing his mother’s mother’s eyes, mouth, nose, hair.

And then he didn’t know what to do. Or to say, he didn’t know what he was doing. The rage lit like a flame in his stomach and he was gone. No one in his way stood a chance. People had the very air stolen from their lungs with a clench of his hand, his sword took hands and pierced hearts, and one very unlucky man was the victim of a punch right to the nose when Grantaire’s poor horse took an arrow to the head and he was forced to dismount.

Grantaire became lost in the battle. He became the battle, nothing but the battle, the waging war, the blood splattering the ground and the rage, the all-encompassing rage of what these people had stolen from him, his mother, his husband, his country. He took less damage than he gave, but he was bleeding in no time. The wound on his leg made walking difficult, yet he ran. A small knife became embedded in his arm, yet he still swung. Blood seeped into his eyes - he didn’t even know where that wound had come from. 

Everything above him became very hot. He turned to see the largest of ships suddenly set aflame, and a great cheer went up around them. They weren’t done yet, but the largest ship was no longer seaworthy.

A hand grabbed his ankle. Grantaire raised his sword and looked down, expecting to grant a dying enemy a much quicker ride to the afterlife. But the small hand was attached to Feuilly, who was absolutely covered in blood and suffering a long gash down their chest. Their shirt was in tatters and Grantaire saw, very openly, just how that had come to own that device to flatten Enjolras’ chest. They were weeping, shaking, and it looked as if they had thrown up.

The rage in him didn’t know whether to die or double. He bent down in the destruction and noticed something carved, literally carved, into Feuilly’s flesh, over the collarbones. But he couldn’t make out the words.

Doubled. No, the rage had increased an amount he could not name as he held his hands out to brave, strong Feuilly, who had already done so much for them. Feuilly clung to his hands, gasping for breath. 

“The...the the castle…” they said, heaved, looking towards the ground. “They’re trying to g-get back -”

And then Grantaire heard no more as a sharp, heavy blade collided with his jawbone, sending him slipping into darkness and slumping to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never really written JVJ or Courf before so...time to practice lol
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	23. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is another chapter I had in my head for a long time before even starting to write this, so I hope I did it justice.

There was darkness lit into warmth from behind. There was softness. There were panicked voices, angry voices, sorrowful voices. There were touches, hands and salves and potions. 

There was weeping.

There was darkness.

**~~~**

“When will he wake?”

The voice seemed distant and far away, but Grantaire was aware, truly aware, for the first time in days. He knew that tone, that anger, and forced his eyes open.

Whatever was lighting the room was dim, yet he still felt blinded, and squeezed his eyes shut again. The squeezing motion, however, sent a pain shooting through his head. So Grantaire settled for just keeping them closed.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, your highness,” said a flighty, soft voice. “We are doing all we can, but I cannot tell you when he will wake. Your husband will wake when his body is ready.”

A huff that Grantaire knew all too well. “Fine, fine...thank you. Could you give us some privacy, please?”

Something swept the floor, and the door shut. A very light weight at his side; a hand in his hair. He remembered those hands. “M’here,“ he croaked, lips and throat very dry. “Enj…”

The weight left. “Stay with me,” Enjolras said, voice creaking. “Stay with me, Hercule, please, please…”

There was a sloshing, and then something cool and wet on his lips. Grantaire did not open his eyes as his mouth learned once more how to drink. There was a lot of water sloshed down his chin, and Enjolras was whispering apologies. “Can you open your eyes?” he said, and Grantaire thought that he was trying to contain himself. “Hercule...Grantaire, can you open your eyes?”

Everything beyond himself seemed to be moving very quickly. “Yea,” he murmurs, “but the candles…too bright.”

There was some sort of sound, and the warm light behind his eyelids disappeared. Grantaire peeled his sticky eyes open to see Enjolras above him, barely lit by what could be only one candle. He looked exhausted, perhaps even gaunt, and there were tears in his eyes. “I will pray in every temple and church in every country on this planet,” he whispered. “You’re awake.”

“I am,” he said. He knew there had been a battle, and he remembered leaving for it, remembered heading for the docks, and then...nothing. Nothing at all. “What...how long…?”

Enjolras got him another drink; more of it seemed to get into his mouth this time. “The battle was a over a week ago,” he said softly. “We kept you sedated to help you heal. But I don’t want you to think about that now. I just want you to rest. I want you to be safe and healthy. Can you do that for me?”

“I can try,” Grantaire said.

There was a gentle kiss on his forehead, and then Grantaire succumbed to sleep once more.

**~~~**

When he woke up the next time, he was far more aware. There was no one sitting on the bed this time, and the quiet of everything made him think it was night time. Grantaire tried to push himself up into a sitting position, but that made his head swim, his arms hurt. So he would stay laying down.

“Princey?” Grantaire tilted his head to the side and saw Gavroche sitting at the desk, looking half asleep. “Oh, you look like hell.”

“Feel like it too,” Grantaire said. “What’re you doing here…?”

“The castle is nothing but shambles and no one knows where anyone is or what’s going on, so I came to check on everyone here. Ep sent your man to sleep somewhere else because he wasn’t getting any rest in here. I promised him I’d stay for a while.” Gavroche yawned and turned around in his chair to face Grantaire better. “You lot really gave my parents a scare. They ran right back for the castle and don’t open the doors for anyone.”

“So they didn’t leave?” Grantaire was so exhausted but wanted to know what he had missed.

“Nope! They’re cowering and hiding, trying to play it off like THEY decided not to leave in the light of ‘an act of terror’ or some nonsense. Like the whole city - probably the whole COUNTRY by now - doesn’t know what happened.”

He closed his eyes again. “This is too much. Can you tell me how our side fared?”

“...I’m not supposed to. Ep and your man wanted to do that themselves.”

Something in his voice did not raise Grantaire’s hopes. Gavroche was talking again, but Grantaire just closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

**~~~**

The third time Grantaire woke fully, Enjolras was sitting in the bed next to him, holding his hand and just staring off into space. The room was brighter now, smelled nicer, felt fresher. Grantaire was still aching, still dizzy. But Enjolras was holding his hand.

Grantaire squeezed his hand, drawing Enjolras’ attention from wherever it had previously been. “Dear,” he said, shifting to sit on his knees. “How are you?”

“...tired, if you can believe it,” he said, which made Enjolras smile. It was a sad, watery thing, though. An in-between emotion did not fit that face, which dealt so much more in extremes. “Aching, but...not as bad as it’s been.”

“I’m glad to hear it, so glad. It’s been a long time waiting for you to come back to me.” Enjolras cupped his cheek, and a tear ran down the length of his nose. “I’ve missed you. Are you with us for good this time? Your eyes seem much brighter…”

Grantaire leaned his face into that touch. “I think I am. I’ve been gone for far too long.”

“A week and a half,” Enjolras said. “We kept you sedated so you could heal easier for the first week, until we were able to liberate Jehan, and then they helped push you along…”

“Liberate Jehan...what’s happened?” Grantaire pushed himself up to a sitting position, and his head swam. But he could stay sitting, and counted that as a victory. He still held onto Enjolras’ hand, for both of their comfort.

“So much, Grantaire. I don’t know if I should put it all on you right now, just after you woke up.”

Grantaire rubbed at his temple, then dragged his hand down to a scabbing wound that led from his chin up to his bandaged ear on the right side of his face. That would probably leave a scar, if it was still bandaged after a week and a half. At least he and Enjolras had scars on matching sides now. “I want to hear, Enjolras.”

“Alright.”

Enjolras had some food sent in - brought int by Cosette, who it was a relief to see - before locking the door to leave him alone with Grantaire once more. Grantaire slowly picked at his food despite his hunger - he had a feeling that he would be feeling sick after hearing this news.

“Well, Gavroche told me that he spoke with you and said that our main plan worked. Of course, upon learning that we lived and were here to fight against them - as well as their daughter - the Thénardiers have tried to push back. They have made it a crime to see me, you, or Éponine, and not report us. A crime punishable by death. That will not stop us - they do not know about Claquesous, at least. They have closed every single border, not only to the country, but to the city. Which is fearful for those we have out in foreign countries trying to gain allies for us. But at this point, I suppose it is safer for them out there than in here with us. 

“I did get into the castle,” Enjolras said. “My team and I saw an opening and took it, got into the castle and emptied the dungeons. There more people than I would have imagined in there. One of the nobles in the dungeons, I can’t recall who, has offered us his business as a place for more of us to live, and some have gone there along with most of who we rescued.”

Grantaire sighed. “It’s a relief to know that some are still on our side...and an honour to know that they have stayed openly loyal.

“Who is dead?” He had to know; who else had they lost?

Enjolras looked down at their hands. He named a few people among their numbers that he knew Grantaire was aware of, and each one was a pang. Then Enjolras faltered. 

“We still may lose Feuilly.”

Grantaire’s heart nearly stopped; memories came washing over him. Feuilly, shirtless, bleeding, carved up. The terrified way they had clung to his ankle. “Tell me.”

Enjolras leaned forward to rest against Grantaire’s shoulder; he wrapped an arm around the smaller man. “As far as we know, they had been spotted while they were painting a message on the heavy gates. ‘Long Live The Peoples,’ in green and red. When they were found, they were yanked to the ground and just...brutal. Bahorel said he rescued you both from the same spot. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” he said darkly. “I saw them...their entire torso…”

“The...the guards who found them apparently took great joy in carving their own words into their chest, among other things,” Enjolras said. Grantaire lowered his spoon and Enjolras did not urge him to pick it back up. “They were almost bled out by the time we got back here. It’s a miracle, honestly, that you were found together. When Bahorel saw that _you_ were on the ground, bleeding from the neck, most of us pulled back to get you to safety. If you hadn’t been lying with Feuilly, they might not have been discovered as soon as they were, and then they definitely…” 

Enjolras took a shuddering breath. “Those monsters nearly destroyed their body, Grantaire. Feuilly’s legs are a mess of flesh and bone.”

Grantaire was grateful for the way Enjolras wrapped his arms around him. There was a pain as some wound or another complained of the movement, but he didn’t care. “Tell me of the others.”

No one left the battle unscathed, of course. But out of Grantaire’s group of friends, no one else was on the verge of death. Enjolras told him of how Gavroche had been a hero despite no one wanting him to be, delving right into battle and using his position to distract guards. He learned of the way Sir Valjean had taken on four at once and come out without a scratch. He heard of how Jehan had been captured at the end of the battle, how they returned long after everyone else with stories of being lined up on a wall at the mercy of five guards, how they were saved by a slice of black shadow and guards who could suddenly not breath - and how proud Montparnasse was of the move. Cosette, Bossuet, Musichetta...everyone had given their all. Éponine had scared the hell out of her family, and everyone had done very well, despite the injuries that spanned over the entire rebellion.

“Were you hurt?” he asked, cupping a hand around the back of Enjolras’ head. 

“Yes, but not terribly so. As I said, I was in the castle - things were a little less violent in there.” Enjolras pulled from the embrace. “And I brought something for you.”

Grantaire watched as Enjolras went over to the desk. “I know I should have been paying more attention in the battle, but when I was in there I couldn’t help myself. I went upstairs and found something for you.” 

He came back with two circular portraits connected at the middle. “It was closed and under a sofa - I don’t think that they knew it was there.”

Grantaire knew what it was. Even before he touched it, he knew it was the smaller version of a portrait done for his father and mother on their wedding day - one in each frame. He took it in hands that were shaking from emotion and exhaust. His mother’s smiling face, so young and so pretty, watched him from the right; from the left, his father was beaming. They had both been so happy to marry.

“Thank you,” he said, setting it in his lap. “I was worried that all of our portraits would be destroyed…”

“This one won’t be.” Enjolras sat next to him again, leaned that golden head against his shoulder. They looked at the portrait a little, until Enjolras sighed. “There’s something else to tell you.

“Now, there is no proof of this - they have no body, but...the Thénardiers have also claimed that their scouts, in searching for the army, found your father and executed him.” Before Grantaire could say anything, Enjolras took his chin and turned his head so they were looking each other in the eye. “We have discussed it - Éponine, Gavroche, Bahorel, and I - and this is what we think: our enemies have learned that you and I live and actively oppose them. They are willing to do anything they can to slow us down, and that is the biggest bargaining chip they have. They want you to think he is dead. None of us personally believe it - if their people had found him, would he not have been captured, or some proof of his death brought back? None of us believe what they are saying, but it is important that you know.”

Grantaire dropped his eyes back to his father’s portrait. “It...it doesn’t matter either way. I have already accepted that I will not see my father again...nothing that they say can hurt me.

“I think I need to rest again, Enj.”

Even to him, his voice sounded tired.

“Alright, darling. Will you try to eat more for me first? We’ve been using potions to keep you going but you really need to get some actual food in you.” Enjolras pulled the bowl of stew into his lap and dipped the spoon in. He held it up to Grantaire as one would do a child that had not yet grown enough to use utensils on their own. 

Grantaire took the spoonful into his mouth, then put his hands over Enjolras’ to pull it away. “Thank you. I’ll eat.”

“Good.” Enjolras nestled in right next to him and told him of more of their victories as he ate, promised to let people come visit him when he was feeling up to it. Grantaire listened to Enjolras talk and let himself be comforted by warm food, a soft bed, and his husband’s voice.

But of course he was wondering - had the Thénardiers been telling the truth?

**~~~**

Bahorel was the first to come visit him, and Grantaire noticed right away that he seemed torn up and desperate. “Holy shit, Grantaire, thank the Old Ones…”

He kissed Grantaire on both cheeks. “Didn’t think I’d ever see those emerald beauties you call eyes open again,” he joked. His voice sounded more tired than Grantaire had ever heard it. “I kept coming to check on you when Feuilly was being examined, but you were always asleep…”

Grantaire urged him to sit down. “Enjolras told me about Feuilly. How are they holding up?”

“They...they haven’t woken up since we got them back here,” Bahorel said. “I know we only just met but I feel a connection to them, and to see them this way…”

“It must be a terrible sight. I remember what I saw, but it’s blurry, like a long-gone memory.” Grantaire patted him on the shoulder. “How did you fare?”

“I...don’t remember much after you were found unconscious, but according to Gavroche I was ‘unstoppable, like a hurricane’ and when I came back to I was...completely soaked in blood and covered in scrapes and bruises.” Bahorel’s chuckle came out more like a plea. “But I made it. There are others much more worse off than me. For one, look at you!”

Grantaire knew that he had to look bad, but hadn’t made it to the mirror to see for himself. He could walk at least, if he held on to the wall, but didn’t want to push it. “I know I probably look like a garbage pyre. Can’t believe Enjolras hasn’t left me for someone with a complete face.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you saw how he reacted to your injuries. He lit up like a chandelier - almost burnt down the house we were standing by, his entire body aflame. Took Cosette and Sir Valjean to calm him down, and by then he had lost everything he was wearing except for his crown - all burnt to cinders. Of course when the remaining enemies saw a figure of flame advancing on them, they retreated rather quickly. Well, a few surrendered. But Enjolras was not in a mood to take prisoners. It was a beautiful but terrible sight. I’ve never seen magic like that from...anybody.” Bahorel seemed in awe. 

“I wish I could have seen it.” But he was wondering how Enjolras felt once the flames went out.

Bahorel seemed to have read his mind. “He wrapped himself up one of our banners - he looked like a hero of old astride his horse in draping robes. Amazing.”

In fact, Grantaire could almost imagine it. For the first time in a long, long time, he felt like painting. If he had the supplies, he would paint that immediately. “I hear it was you who saved me, though.”

“I would die for you, Grantaire,” Bahorel said, but the smile on his face was easy. “Rescuing your bleeding, sleeping beauty form was the least I could do.”

“I owe you,” Grantaire said, lightly punching Bahorel on the arm. “Anything you want, name it.”

Bahorel’s smiling faded. “Don’t suppose you can heal Feuilly.”

“If I could, I would. That would be the first thing I would do…” Grantaire looked over to him. “We’ll all be alright. 

“Won’t we?”

“Wish I could say, Grantaire,” Bahorel said, putting an arm around his shoulder. “Really wish I could.”

**~~~**

That next morning, he awoke a statue, but not completely numb. He knew everything was bubbling under a thin surface, as if his own body was trying to protect him from his emotions. Enjolras draped over him, as if protecting him from outside forces; it was the inside ones that were worse. He had sort of expected it, after everything. But that didn’t make it any more bearable.

Enjolras seemed to notice this right away, but didn’t make a big deal out it. Grantaire appreciated that. They ate, Cosette staying with them this time. Grantaire appreciated that was well - she seemed to brighten up any room.

After breakfast, Jehan came in to urge Grantaire to his feet. They had Joly’s cane in their hands. “He wanted to offer it to you for the time being,” they said, passing it to him. “So you can get around easier as you heal - the physical part of this is important.”

Grantaire accepted it, and let Enjolras help him to dress. “Your people will want to see you,” he said, combing out Grantaire’s hair with his fingers. “I’ve told them that you need calm and quiet, not to rush you or bombard you. If it gets too much, we will come back in here.”

He made it to a chair out in the main room, where he did greet people as they came to see him. Seeing who had survived raised his spirits a little; seeing how many empty cots there now were brought him crashing back down. 

A little girl - who couldn’t have been more than 4 years old - came toddling up to him through the crowd. She put her hands on his knee and looked up at him with big brown eyes. Grantaire had always loved children and even now could not deny it. The girl’s mother rushed up to pull her away, but Grantaire shook his head. “No, no. It’s alright.”

The little girl scrambling into his laugh made the people that were surrounding him laugh. She sat there, leaning against his stomach as if she had known him her entire life even though this was his first time seeing her. The girl watched him carefully, then patted his hand, which was bandaged. She stood, tiny little feet on his leg, and wrapped her arms around his neck. Grantaire rested a large hand on her back before she let go and scrambled away as if nothing had happened. The mother tried apologizing again, but Grantaire wouldn’t hear it; that had improved his mood greatly. That little tiny girl had been so sweet - how could he not feel better?

**~~~**

That question was answered for him in three ways. 

One, was Courfeyrac, that bright beacon, who did not seem him approach through almost unfocused eyes. “Blinded by a sun mage,” he said, still managing to give a grin once he realized who was there. “But hey, as I see it - I’m living underground for now, so what do I got to look at?”

“Courfeyrac, that...is a good way to...” Enjolras started, but then seemed to falter. “Uhm.”

“Look at things?” Courfeyrac offered. He laughed heartily, and got a chuckle out of someone sitting nearby, that Grantaire had not noticed. 

How, he didn’t know - a large man with very dark skin and coiled hair down past his waist, heavy spectacles, and a very handsome, intelligent looking face was hard to miss. The man who was being trained to be his advisor, whom he had only spoken with a couple times. “Combeferre?”

“That’s me, your highness,” Combeferre said, bowing his head. “It is a relief to see you again. Or anything that isn’t that dungeon. Your castle is lovely, but I would redecorate your dungeons.”

“They had you captured?” Grantaire thought it must have taken a few people to capture him, with how large and strong he looked. Of course, he may have been caught by surprise, been unarmed, or have weak magic. He didn’t think it polite to ask.

“Yes, I was still in the castle, getting some work done, when the attack happened.” He looked a little worse for wear, but that would happen to anyone who had been imprisoned for a month.

Courfeyrac wagged his finger in the air. “That’s why you scholars need to get out and rest sometimes! You know the old Elusian proverb - too much work gets you thrown in a dungeon!”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, but Grantaire could see that he was trying not to smile. “I don’t think I’ve heard that one.”

“Hmm, must be regional.”

Despite the laughter, Grantaire did not feel like joining in. How could he, when a man had lost his eyesight?

The second way his question - _How could I not feel better after that?_ \- was answered was by Éponine. She did not seem injured in any lasting way, but she was nearly mute. Wouldn’t answer anyone about anything, and spoke mostly through her brother or Montparnasse. 

“Gavroche said that she has done this before, when their parents began to act up in a rough way,” Enjolras said as they left her to her table and her wine. “Sometimes her mind couldn’t take how awful they were, and she just needed to be somewhere else. Best guess is that seeing them again jogged some painful memories for her and did this. It’s very understandable. There have been plenty of times I wanted to stop talking, too.”

That, Grantaire understood perfectly well. He didn’t know what to do for her, though.

“I never even saw them,” he said. “It’s odd to me, to fight an enemy I have not seen.”

“I met them,” Enjolras said. “On my way out of the castle as they pushed their way back in. Her mother could have been beautiful once, before this evil warped her. Both of their eyes were sharp, they were conniving. And those poor children - Éponine’s sister looks just like her, only meeker. Those little boys hardly looked alive at all…

“Her parents don’t even seem worth your gaze,” Enjolras said, squeezing his free hand. “When you see them, I hope it will be only to end their lives.”

“As do I.” After this, after all that had been done, driving them out was no longer enough. But Grantaire would leave that decision to Gavroche and Éponine. Hopefully, by then, she would be able to speak and tell him what she wanted.

**~~~**

What cemented his knowledge that things were irreversibly bleak was something that Grantaire knew would destroy him.

He hesitated outside of the room that had been cleared out for Feuilly. “You don’t have to see them today,” Enjolras said, rubbing circles into his back. “I fear that you are already pushing yourself.”

“No,” Grantaire said. “I have to see them, to know they’re alive if just for the moment. They...they were trying to tell me something before I was knocked unconscious during the battle. I don’t know what, but I remember then grabbing for me. Even if they’re asleep…”

Enjolras nodded and let him knock on the door. Joly answered, and immediately stepped to the side. 

“Sit,” he said, gesturing Grantaire to a chair near the bed. Bahorel was sitting in that bed, stroking auburn hair. Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to look lower than that. Enjolras’ sharp intake of breath was all he needed. Joly hovered near the side of the bed. “How are you feeling? Both of you?”

“Tired,” they both answered, almost at the same time. That didn’t stop Joly from giving them both a cursory once-over.

Bahorel sighed from over on the bed. “They were muttering just a couple moments ago,” he said. “But they didn’t wake up.”

“Muttering is good,” Grantaire said.

He had to do it. Grantaire had experienced warfare before, seen friends, good people, stuck through with arrows and bleed to death on the battlefield. He had watch as a friend was knocked off his horse by one very well-aimed spear throw, another friend dead with the blood frozen in his very veins.

None of it prepared him for Feuilly lying in that bed. They were cleaned, at least, but their skin was a sickly shade of grey, green creeping upon them at the edges of their wounds. The blankets were tucked over Feuilly’s middle and under their arms, both of which were coated in salve. 

He could make out most of the crooked letters carved over their collar bones. _Long live,_ it read; Grantaire could only assume that the remainder of the words were hidden under the thin fabric spread over Feuilly’s body for modesty. Their legs, however...

Their legs were completely free of any bindings, feet propped up in cobbled-together stirrups to keep their legs from touching the fabric. Though Grantaire could hardly call them legs. Bloody masses of damaged tissue held together by casts of swirling magic that Joly seemed to be able to in place with the barest amount of attention, that seemed to be a better description.

“It was worse when they were brought here,” Joly said. “One leg was...was almost all the way off, barely held on by sinew. The other was nearly pulverized. We don’t know when it happened, but…”

A sob echoed through the room. Grantaire snapped his head up to Bahorel, who had his hand over his mouth. He stood up and slowly circled the bed to loop ar arm around his shoulders. “Sorry, sorry…” Bahorel said, trying to breath in deeply and calm himself. “I just. They had so many things they wanted to do, and now I don’t know, I just don’t know…”

“They’ll get to do everything they wanted,” Enjolras said. “I guarantee it. 

“Captain, look me in the eye.”

Bahorel looked up from where he had been gazing down at Feuilly’s face.

“I will not let Feuilly die here. You have my word as Prince of Aenorium Valoris that Feuilly will live to see freedom, health, and any dreams that they have.” Enjolras stuck his hand out and grasped Bahorel’s shoulder across the bed. “You have my word on my honour.”

“And mine as well,” Grantaire said. He looked down at Feuilly’s sleeping form. “You hear that? You need to improve - there are people counting on you.”

There was no answer, as expected. But Grantaire stayed with Bahorel and Feuilly, letting Joly fuss over his wounds and learning more of the battle. He kept glancing at Feuilly’s chest, however. Words carved into flesh; it made him want to throw up.

He hoped that Feuilly would wake, so Grantaire could apologize for pulling them into this mess in the first place.

**~~~**

“This whole country feels as if it is dead,” Grantaire confessed to Enjolras later that night. “Everything, everyone...we’re either dead or halfway there.”

“I see how it feels that way,” Enjolras said. “That’s why we have to keep pushing forward, towards a better tomorrow, a better future. One where you’re healthy, where Feuilly can walk again, where Courfeyrac has adapted...where our people are free.”

Grantaire almost snorted, but he did roll his eyes in the dark. “If everyone is dead, what’s the point of it all? I almost feel like giving up.”

“Even after your promise to Bahorel?” Shifting next to him as Enjolras sat, and a few candles next to them flickered into life. Enjolras was watching him very, very closely. “I believe in what I said, what I say. I know you are injured and today is a bad day for you, but...do you truly not have any hope? Do you believe in what we are doing?”

“I don’t know,” Grantaire whispered. “I want to believe, but this has been just...one tragedy after another. I want things to change even as I doubt if they can.”

Enjolras kissed his forehead. “I believe in change. I...I have to. Look at me. I believe that I can change, my body can change. Our people. Our country. Our freedom. After all, look at us - we were strangers two months ago, and now I stay awake at night because I do not think I could go on without you.”

“...you do?” It came out as a raspy whisper. It was a statement that carried great weight. Grantaire wished that he had the strength to hold it, for Enjolras’ sake. “I don’t mean to worry you.”

“It’s nothing that’s your fault. Not being injured, and not being ill.” Enjolras wove his fingers through Grantaire’s dark curls, which were as tangled as ever, having grown out a little bit. “You have an illness just as I do, that lurks in the shadows of our minds and hearts. But it is something I - and I suspect you, from what you’ve said - have lived with for many years. It is something that has not killed either of us yet, and it is something that will not kill this country.

“We are better than anything that stands in our way. We can overcome, Grantaire. We can overcome anything.”

Grantaire took a shaking breath. “Kiss me, Enjolras,” he said.

“Hm? I don’t want to jostle your injuries…”

“Kiss me.” He strained to push himself up his elbow and captured Enjolras’ mouth on his. He didn’t want to talk, or to think.

Grantaire just wanted lose himself in Enjolras’ arms and, for a moment, forget the entire world existed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! We're approaching the end, slowly but steadily.


	24. Parting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unhealthy thought patterns ahoy!

“I don’t think you should go,” Grantaire found himself saying a week later. He was mostly healed at that point, put with way his head had been shaken around by the attack, everyone wanted him to relax. So he had left other things to other people. Éponine dove into work, and was beginning to talk to people again, with Cosette working as her assistant. Courfeyrac worked alongside Combeferre, dealing in legalities and terminologies that Grantaire feared he would never understand, so when there was a take over, things would be easier. Of course he worked with them quite a bit, and Enjolras, to decide on things that could be decided upon in such uncertain times.

The biggest decision was that they would be sworn in as kings as soon as possible. Grantaire had always known the title would belong to him, but it felt weird to see it so close. He was not excited, because being a king meant that he had lost all chance of seeing either of his parents ever again. But it was what he had to do.

Grantaire worked with everything, one hand in every section of the rebellion. He sat in on classes teaching people how to make poultices and potions in case anything happened to their healers. With others doing practical study in swordwork, Grantaire took on the task of the theory of using weapons. He would have liked to show his students, but yet again, he was not to push himself. When he was aching, he helped with inventory. He spoke yet again with Combeferre and Enjolras about policies to be instated right when they took the throne. 

Every citizen voted on a new maxim for their country. _Long Live the Peoples_ won with every single hand in the room raised.

Feuilly did not wake. They moved, and they made sounds, but they did not wake. Jehan and Joly confessed to Bahorel and Grantaire late one night that, after such a long time unconscious, they could not say if Feuilly would ever wake again. It was tricky with magic, made the human body react in different ways, and with Feuilly’s own magic dealing mostly in deception...their mind may have being trying to hide their body from the outside world while everything healed. And with so much for the magic to work on, even with powerful healers like Jehan on the job, things were slow. Their legs were healing, though, and Grantaire tried to take that as a good sign.

It was still hard to see anything as good. Grantaire still felt as if things might be hopeless.

But he was their prince. He would be their king. He had to keep up the appearance of optimism, and sleep through each night with his face in Enjolras’ neck as if the man’s delicate scent could give him the hope he wished he felt.

And that man wanted to leave. “Grantaire,” he said, standing across the table from him. “We don’t want them getting the idea that we are going to just disappear. I think that if we keep moving forward we can drive them out quicker, as well as show everyone that we are not a force to be trifled with. And I want to be the one to head this mission. It’s very simple. The barracks are where the guards stay, and where a good store of weapons are kept. I think if we took a small, stealthy team and moved at night, we could make a move against them and hopefully take out their weapons and guard, or bring some of that guard back to us.”

“I have to agree,” Bahorel said. There were heavy bags under his eyes and he was looking waned. “I’ll go as well, if that improves your opinion of the mission. Those are my barracks and if anyone is going to be liberating them, it will be me.”

They all knew that he was searching for a sort of revenge.

“I don’t think anyone should go. I think we should regroup and make a full offensive move on the castle. Enjolras, I know that you are strong, but I do not want you plunging directly into the lion’s den this way.”

Éponine snorted. “Don’t give them so much credit. Once you get to them, my parents will be easy to take down if there’s enough of us. It’s just getting through _to_ them that will be the problem. And I think Enjolras is right - we need to make a move.”

“Making a move is fine,” Grantaire interjected. “But why does it have to be that? And him?”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Enjolras sighed, squeezing his temples. “I can decide for myself if I desire to and am capable of going out on such a mission. I do, and I am. I will not cower and hide.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing, _your highness_? Hiding in shadow instead of riding off to be the hero and save the kingdom?”

The entire room fell silent at the harshness of Grantaire’s voice, the sharp edges of his words. He was tired, and in pain, and terrified - terrified of Enjolras going to the castle and never coming back. “I...cannot talk about this right now,” he said. “Feel free to discuss other things without me.”

No one said anything as he stood and, still leaning on Joly’s cane, left the room.

 

**~~~**

 

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on with you?” Enjolras asked ten minutes later, when he had found Grantaire hiding upstairs in Éponine’s office. He stood in the doorway, arms folded over his chest. He had lost that thing to flatten his chest when he burst into flames and spent a lot of time with his arms crossed now. Grantaire could tell however that at this moment, Enjolras was folding his arms out of anger instead of the other reason. “I know you’ve been having a hard time, Grantaire, but I don’t appreciate you talking to me that way - especially in front of other people.”

He WAS having a hard time, but he couldn’t vocalize it. Grantaire understood the feeling. Enjolras was eager to leave and put himself in danger. The idea that Enjolras was behaving as if life were nothing, prepared to die and leave Grantaire alone in his dark state...it infuriated him.

Grantaire had almost died. What was stopping worse from happening to Enjolras? That man was all he had left. His family - dead. His home - invaded. Yes, he had friends, but it was so easy to see that they were just using him as the prince, to help the rebellion, and that once it was over he would be left alone again.

He could not sit on the throne by himself. He was not made for that life. There was no part of him that had any foolish hope of being a successful king alone, and Enjolras was more than ready to risk pushing him into that life.

Yet he was having a hard time processing, and all of that came out as an acerbic, “I am starting to think that there is not something wrong with me, but something wrong with the lot of you that you are so willing to dive headfirst into death! I will cling to life, thank you very much.”

“Those who cling to life don’t live off of wine,” Enjolras said as Grantaire popped the cork from a bottle he had just taken from the kitchen. In fact he had been surviving off of water and broth since the battle, Jehan and Joly banning him from anything alcoholic. He hadn’t gone without wine or ale for such a long time since that summer in the war party. It wasn’t anything rare, to drink, but times were changing and with improved spells to clean water, there was a better option. Healers were suspecting that alcohol was not as safe as once thought.

And plenty of people drank to excess, drank their money, family, life away. But not Grantaire. He looked Enjolras in the eye as he pressed the open mouth of the bottle to his lips and tilted it back; he didn’t even bother with the glass he had taken as well. Had Enjolras not come in and started badgering him, maybe he would have. “I cling to life, and I cling to wine.”

“Grantaire, please.” That blond head ducked, Enjolras sighed. “I am trying to be sensitive of your condition and your issues, but I do not want to put the entire country in danger.”

“So my moods are going to destroy this already dying land?” he all but spat.

Enjolras titled his head up and speared Grantaire with those piercing eyes. “Where are you _getting_ this?”

“From what you said!”

“That’s putting words in my mouth,” Enjolras said. He strode forward and leaned over the desk to look Grantaire in the eye. “Grantaire, you mean more to me than anything in the world right now. I need you to know that. But so does this country. We can have no future together if we do not work for it.”

“Then go save it,” Grantaire said, his anger bubbling and fermenting in the wine that he could finally feel filling his stomach. “You go on to the castle and end up as dead as anyone else for all I care.”

Enjolras hesitated, then turned around. He only made it a few steps before turning back around. “When you are feeling better, we will talk about this again.”

“Go on. Save the world, Enjolras. So much the worse for you; I won’t go to your funeral.”

He watched them leave that night from the balcony, Enjolras in his helm at the front, leading the pack of five.

 

**~~~**

 

They were gone for two days. Bahorel had been livid that they left without taking him as well, but Grantaire was glad for his presence. Through it all, at least Bahorel stayed by his side.

Grantaire had just pushed the cane back into Joly’s hands and was sitting with him and Musichetta, talking over nothing and trying to ignore the guilt that was eating away at him when the alarm was sounded, signifying that those who had gone to castle had returned. It seemed that everyone in the house was ready to accept their party back with wide open arms - being that Grantaire and the other two had been up in the library, they were among the last to arrive, crowding the kitchen doorway.

The spoils were sent in first - crates and chests of weapons and armor that had been brought home in a stolen cart. Horses released from the stables whinnied and neighed outside as they were brought into the carriage house. Was Bijoux among them?

Then the party came in. Grantaire could not see them, but joined in the applause. There was cheering and shouts of welcome, promises to find the healers for what minor injuries the soldiers had suffered.

And then through the crowd, a soft, sweet voice, delicate as lace and strong as steel. Cosette, unmistakable. “ - Enjolras?”

It was quiet at first, and Grantaire assumed she was speaking with him.

“I don’t see him,” he heard her say, and his heart stopped. “Where is he?”

The volume grew. “Where is Enjolras? I-is he outside with the horses?”

Grantaire started to push his way through the crowd, only the most determined of his injuries complaining. When people saw it was him, they stepped out of the way. He came out near the door, where Cosette stood near three of the soldiers, her tiny frame tense. She looked to him as he came to a stop, then rushed over and took his wrist. “They won’t say,” she said. “They won’t answer me, Grantaire…”

He looked over them, the returned soldiers. “Where is my husband?”

One of them swallowed. “He...he was captured, your highness. Where they took him, we don’t know. But Prince Enjolras was captured by the enemy.”

Cosette whipped around and pressed her face into his chest, arms around his middle. Grantaire rested his hand on the small of her back. A hush had fallen over the room, as if everyone was waiting for him to respond.

But all he could think of was how cruel he had been just before Enjolras left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter than usual, but does the job!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	25. Invade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More violence!

Gavroche had come running down to tell them that Enjolras was captured the moment he knew. 

“They’re REAL proud of it, have him alone in the dungeons, with those gems that block magic from working, five guards down there at all times,” Gavroche said. “I told them I wanted to get a look at the guy and they laughed, said he’s the princess and is a girl, told them he SAYS he’s a man, but they don’t care, they took his clothes, they - “

“Gavroche,” Éponine said, putting her hands on his shoulders. “Calm down. Speak more clearly, I can hardly understand you.”

He nodded, then took a breath and tried again. “They took his clothes, told him it was the dress or nothing. Then Enjolras told Father to rot in hell and spit in his face. I’m gonna try to bring him clothes he don’t hate, I don’t know, but when you come get him make sure you bring clothes ‘cause he’s naked right now and I don’t doubt that he’d run them out of the castle with his bare ass hanging out.”

Grantaire crouched a little, to look Gavroche in the eye. “Can the guards get into his cell?” There was a panic in his voice that he could not hide. If he was naked in there and nothing more than a prisoner...Grantaire had promised Enjolras that he was safe, that nothing like this would ever happen to him again. He did not like to be made a liar of. “Do the guards have keys?”

“Only my parents.”

“That’s hardly any better,” Éponine said.

His entire body was in pain, and it had nothing to do with his injuries. “We go tonight. I’ll tell Jehan for one last round of healing and then we’ll go.”

“I have to agree,” Sir Valjean said. He looked tense, as tense as Grantaire thought a man could be without exploding. “But they’ll be expecting us, be prepared for us. We need move quickly, also with intelligence,”

“If we just had more people, we could raid the castle. When it comes to numbers, we just don’t have it.” Bahorel was sitting by the door, looking tired. “It takes at least 300 to take that castle even when it’s not fully staffed, it’s specifically designed that way.”

“Well, what we have is what we have. Hardly 200 after that bloodbath, and with Enjolras captured...he was one of our toughest.” Éponine seemed very tired. But then Cosette, who had been weepy this entire time, sniffled, and Éponine seemed to gain a bit of strength. “I think we should move tonight.”

Gavroche nodded. “After midnight the security does tend to get a little...sad. If you met me at the servants entrance I could get a couple people in….”

“Then we could open the doors. I will go down to dungeons to protect Enjolras in case the guards have instructions to kill him if we get in, but anyone else can go get the others in. We don’t have to make it an open attack,” Grantaire said.

“We sneak in through the back, just like they did.”

“Those who know the castle best should go in, then,” Sir Valjean said.

Bahorel nodded. “Myself and Grantaire. Combeferre?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

Grantaire made a few notes of their names. “Cosette, I assume you want to come.”

“Of course I do!” Next to her, Éponine winced; Grantaire looked and saw that, across the table Cosette was squeezing Éponine’s hand too tightly. “I may not know the castle as well as you all, but I was there for a decent amount of time.”

“And you won’t rest until you see the prince alive with your own eyes,” Sir Valjean offered. “Honestly, I feel much the same. I offer my own services - I do not know the castle, but I would be an asset.”

Grantaire remembered the way he threw the extremely large boulder. “I must agree. That would send five of us in. Is that enough?”

Éponine nodded. “Any more and they might become suspicious.”

“One more,” said a deep, silky voice from the back. Claquesous raised his hand. “If I’m somewhere in the castle I can keep your faces hidden.”

“Thank you, Claquesous,” Éponine said. “But why is Patron Minette so willing to do things for free these days?”

“Our country too,” was all he said.

“Then it’s settled. Tonight, we move in. We get Enjolras back. And...are we ending this? Is this the last?” Éponine seemed ready.

And Grantaire was ready. “Yes. I will call a meeting with everyone here and explain the plan. Tonight we capture them. I do not want the Thénardiers killed, do you understand me? But we move quickly. We move with strength. We teach these Mendirians exactly who they are dealing with.”

“Tonight, we take Aenorium Valoris back.”

**~~~**

Jehan and Joly had not wanted Grantaire to go, both agreeing that another couple days of healing would be advisable.

Grantaire told them both that he didn’t care. They both concentrated their efforts on his remaining injuries, and while he did not feel completely up to snuff, Grantaire thought it would be enough to get him through. 

He was armored with stealth - instead of metal, a fabric meant to protect from physical attacks, a cloak that deflected magic. None of them could go in obviously armored, or with weapons. Gavroche, who had already returned to the castle with the very intelligent addition of Chetta, said he would try to get into the smaller indoor armory and supply them with proper weapons.

But Grantaire would not be without his broadsword. Chetta, in a moment of quick thinking, had hidden it under her voluminous skirts to sneak into the castle.

The hardest part was the waiting. They waited until the moon was in the proper position in the sky, to signify it was nearly an hour after midnight, when things would be quiet, and they left. 

To keep quiet, they went on foot, staggered in pairs. Cosette and Combeferre left first, a pair of lovers on a midnight stroll and breaking the curfew to do so. They were followed by Bahorel and Claquesous, two large, rough looking men that no one else stupid enough to be out after dark would bother.

Grantaire was the last to leave, with Sir Valjean. All four pairs would meet in the back of the castle, a place where Grantaire knew it would be easy to scale the wall, a security flaw he had always overlooked in favour of giving himself an easy way to sneak out was a younger man.

At first, they moved quietly, worried that Gavroche’s guarantee that most night time patrols were centered around the castle and along the borders of the city would not hold true. But after moving three blocks without seeing any sign of guards, Grantaire relaxed a little.

“...Sir Valjean,” he said. “You’ve known Enjolras for his entire life, yes?”

“Since the moment he was born. The king was away and I took his place during the birth. It is not a widely known fact, but as Queen Yseult lost consciousness immediately upon giving birth, I was in fact the first one to hold the little fellow. He was small even then, small enough to cause worry. He could fit in one of my boots.”

Had Grantaire been feeling more jovial, he would have asked if Enjolras had ever been _put_ into a boot as a baby; if things ever returned to normal, he would ask. “May I ask you something about him?”

“Anything, your highness.”

“Is he a man to...hold onto grudges?” The words felt sticky in his throat.

“Injustices, yes. Grudges, no.” Sir Valjean looked at him wisely. “Would you like to tell me what happened, my boy?”

He didn’t.

He did.

His mouth made the decision for him. “Right before we left, I got into a terrible fight with him. You know that I did not want him going. But instead of...I don’t know, supporting him like a normal man, instead of seeing my husband off with a kiss and a promise to see him when the battle was won, the last thing I said to him was ‘I won’t go to your funeral’. I was cruel to him before then, even, short-tempered and snapping. And I just…”

“Hope that while he is captured, he remembers that you care about him?” the older man offered.

“Yes. And that he knows I would do anything to keep him safe. I can’t stand to think that he’s locked up now, with no magic, possibly having things done to him that I don’t even want to think about...and that the last thing he heard from me was that I wouldn’t go to his funeral.”

Sir Valjean sighed, then clapped Grantaire on the back; the simply action sent Grantaire reeling forward. “Forgive me, your highness. As for Enjolras...he is not a boy who thinks in black-and-white. He understands grey areas better than most. And he has quite a temper as well. I am sure that he understands that things said in anger and hurt are not always true. He knows you care about him, Prince Hercule. I’ve seen you with him.

“In 18 years, I have never seen anyone handle that boy as gently and softly as you do. And when you compare the softness of your honest feelings for him with the heat of something said out of anger...well. I am an old man, your highness, and if there is one thing that I have learned, it’s that honesty always comes out in the end.”

A large tear rolled down Grantaire’s cheek. “Thank you, sir. Now let’s go end this.”

This wouldn’t feel right until he could apologize to Enjolras and see him alive.

They both pulled their cloaks up and picked up speed.

**~~~**

The castle, even from the back, was quiet. Far quieter than Grantaire was used to it being even at such a late hour. All members of the party met under the old statue of the original hero Hercule, one that was falling down that no one ever thought to fix as it was just off of castle grounds.That was right where the crumbling part of the high wall surrounding the castle was, meaning it was easy to slip up and over.

Grantaire went first, since he knew these grounds better than anyone else. He climbed the wall until just his eyes were peeking over the top. No one seemed to be that close, but there were two figures moving up closer to the servant’s entrance, the one a younger Grantaire had bribed maids and under-butlers to let him in through without alerting his parents. The moment they passed by, Grantaire whistled, quiet and low, but the Heavensbird song nonetheless. From below, Claquesous sent up the spell, and their faces were concealed. Grantaire had to trust him - while he was under the spell, he could see the others quite easily.

One by one, the climbed the wall, and dropped down on the other side. In that time, no other guards looped around. All that stood between them was the back garden and the door.

Grantaire counted to 10. As he mouthed the last number, the servant’s entrance door opened, and Gavroche wandered outside. Nonchalantly, casually, holding an apple as if he were just wandering outside for a midnight snack. He wandered out of sight one way, then looped around and wandered back the other way. Finally, he sat on a barrel near the door and took a bite of his apple. The look of disgust on his face, as if he had bitten into a rotten spot, was amazing - it was a shame that if they were lucky, no one would see Gavroche’s performance. He was only giving it on the off-chance that someone was watching.

Then he gave the signal that all was clear by tossing the apple into the bushes and heading inside. He closed the door.

But not all of the way.

They moved as a group, close, clumped together in order to let Claquesous’ magic incase all of them - faces, torsos, and heads included. But it was one by one that they slid through the door.

“That better be you,” said Gavroche from where he was unlocking the pantry door. “Because if not I’m fu-”

“I don’t think your sister would want you to finish that word,” Cosette said, and Gavroche grinned. 

“Alright, alright. I’ve got arms in here for you lot, and Chetta’s waiting at the top of the stairs. Cosette, you and Claquesous take what you need and go up that staircase, so Chetta can bring you to the room where Azelma and the boys are so you can watch out for them and stop my parents from taking them and trying to escape. Bahorel, Combeferre, Valjean - you’re with me. We’ll bring you to the best places to wait it out.

“And you, Princey.” Gavroche opened the pantry and pulled out his broadsword. He struggled a bit with the weight of it, but delivered the weapon safely into Grantaire’s hands. “You know best where to hide closest to the dungeons. Get there.”

Grantaire nodded, attaching his sheath to his belt once again. It felt nice. He looked up at his team, who he trusted with not only his own life, but the vastly important life of his husband. “In one hour, when we have all settled into our appropriate spots and everyone else is asleep, Gavroche is going to alert his parents and the guards to our troops advancing from the East. But only a handful of our people will be there. In the confusion, Sir Valjean will break the gate in the front of the castle, while Bahorel and Combeferre open the doors.

“We are bringing an army in through their very front door and there is nothing they can do about it. If there are guards near the front door, so as you wish but stop them from sounding an alarm. Once our people have passed the front gate, they will be able to get into the castle no matter what, but I want the enemy to be in the dark for as long as possible. I will get Enjolras. His liberation is one of my top priorities.”

Here, he took a breath. “If any of our soldiers ask if either of us have been seen, lie. Tell them you just saw us. Tell them that we are in whatever direction is opposite from the direction THEY came in.

“Even if you know one or both of us to be dead, lie and say we live.”

Bahorel stepped forward. “Neither of you will die, your highness. I swear this to you.”

He dropped to one knee. And as if by one thought, the others did the same - Claquesous included. Grantaire nodded, pressing his lips together to keep a grip on his composure. “Rise. You will all be knighted by the time this battle is through.”

“Now let us go; we’ve waited long enough.”

**~~~**

Grantaire was the first to leave. In case anything went wrong, he needed to be at Enjolras’ side.

Though the kingdom was peaceful, the castle was old and housed a sizeable dungeon, with one large room for the lowest offenders and small cells with shackles on the walls for those who requires a bit more supervision. Gavroche had told Grantaire that Enjolras was, of course in the one cell farthest from the stairs. Said stairs were old, and creaky, and unsafe.

Luckily, Grantaire’s magic lent itself to sneaking. With concentrated pockets of hair surrounding his feet, he would never need to touch the stairs at all.

But the stairs would have to wait. He moved quietly up the stairs, where he greeted Chetta with a kiss on the cheek and promise to see her again after the battle. Then it was off to the Northern portion of the castle.

It was strange to be sneaking through the walls of his own childhood home. But Grantaire knew exactly where to go - there was an alcove just around the corner from the entrance to the dungeons, with the statue of some doddery old great-grand-uncle or someone shoved into it. Grantaire bet that he could slip behind it and, in the dark, with his concealed face and black cloak, go unnoticed.

He made it through the hallways without running into another soul, which surprised and concerned him. Why would they not protect the entrance to the dungeons better, with just a highly-sought after resident down there. To Grantaire, that meant one of two things - either this dungeon was crawling with guards, or Enjolras had been moved.

The first option, he might be able to handle as long as none of them had a sword to Enjolras’ throat. 

The second? Well, he would face that if only when and if he must.

With moving carefully despite the empty hallways, Grantaire arrived at the alcove with just about half of his allotted time left to spare. The statue was still there, though covered with a sheet, as if it were about to be moved out any day. Grantaire considered himself lucky it had not been moved.

He slipped in behind the statue and waited.

After what felt like three days but was more likely only 15 minutes, Grantaire heard footsteps. He pulled himself in close, arms tucked to his side and legs pressed together. The sheet honestly helped to hide him, but made it hard to see. 

He listened as the footsteps gained, the clanking letting him know that they were armored guards - a good sign if he was hoping for Enjolras to still be in the dungeon.

“...is on Princess duty,” he heard one of them say. “Said he doesn’t know why it take five of them to guard one tiny girl, but that’s how it is.”

“You must not have seen her last time - she was a walking torch!”

Grantaire’s skin crawled as he realized they were talking about Enjolras. But five guard, he could handle if he played his cards right. Five guards was what Gavroche had said, five guards was what grantaire had planned for. If they hadn’t increased the amount, they must not suspect any sort of move to be made tonight. This was working in his favor.

The guards kept walking, and Grantaire peeked out from behind the statue. Nothing.

Just as he was sure that Gavroche would be raising the alarm, there were more footsteps. But this time, muffled. As if they were coming from behind a door.

Or below him.

And voices. One male, one female. Rough accents became apparent as the dungeon door was opened.

“Really a smart girl would just give us whot we wanna know, eh?” said the man. Grantaire felt dread creep into his stomach.

The woman scoffed. “She still thinks she’s protectin’ her boar of a husband, Im sure. We’ll get it out of her, Alain, don’t you worry. Of course I think next time it’ll take a little more brute force. You’re too soft on the girls, that’s always been your problem! Look at how Époni-”

A loud _thud_ as if someone had hit the wall. “I told ya to NEVER say that name to me again!” the man roared. “She’s DEAD to us, you understand!?”

“Don’t you screech at me, I ain’t in no mood for one of yer tantrums after you keep me up all night to torture the royal whore. Your DAUGHTER might have lived to come fight against us but this one won’t! Now get yer skinny ass back up to bed before I lock you in a dungeon as well!”

“Get OFF me, woman!”

They argued all of the way down the hall, but grantaire didn’t even dare peek out at them.

He didn’t want to lay eyes on Alain and Guinevere Thénardier until he absolutely had to.

**~~~**

When the alarm went up, it went up fast. It seemed as if one moment, everything was dead and the next, the hallways was filled with guards, all racing to the East.

“Those BLOODY idiots are at it again!” Grantaire heard one of them yell. “Coming from the East! The King wants everyone over there!”

“Surely not everyone,” came a voice that Grantaire thought was familiar. “Shouldn’t some of us stay here? They’ll come for the prisoner.”

The owner of the first voice snarled. “FINE! You and…”

“I volunteer as well, sir,” came another voice that Grantaire thought he knew.

“Good! Stay there and if anyone comes for the Princess, KILL THEM ON SIGHT!”

Grantaire could do nothing but stay and listen as the guards marched away.

Once it was silent, one of the guards who remained behind sighed. “It will be alright. The maid with the curly hair said that Prince Hercule is in the castle already.”

“I just hope he’s nearby. I don’t want to be caught as traitors until after the army is here.”

His heart jumped into his chest. What was going on?

“We’re not TRAITORS, we’re loyal to Prince Hercule.”

“Right, right…”

He had to take a look. With his face still hopefully concealed by Claquesous’ magic, Grantaire poked his head out just enough to see who he was dealing with.

The two guards standing at the dungeon door were the two who had survived the attack in the pub with himself and Enjolras, the two men he had sat with as they healed and remembered the man who had died.

Suddenly, things felt much more in reach.

“Hugo?” he asked quietly, praying that he was correctly remembering their names. “Victor?”

They both turned, and Grantaire stepped out into the hallway. “It’s me - Grantaire. My face in concealed,” he said as he saw Hugo reach for his sword. “Concealed by magic. I snuck in with the help of young Gavroche.”

Victor nearly ran to him. “We heard you were coming, we couldn’t believe it...it’s you, your highness. I would know that sword anywhere.”

“It’s me. Can i count on the two of you to help me get Prince Enjolras to safety?” Now that he knew he had assistance, Grantaire was more eager than ever to get into the dungeon.

Both guards snapped to attention with a salute.

“Alright - then here we go.”

The door, luckily, Victor had stolen a key to when Chetta, supposedly, had warned them of this coming battle. Grantaire could have kissed him. They unlocked the door and Grantaire used his wind to layer their feet so, hopefully, they would not make a sound.

The sounds of the guards met Grantaire’s ears less than half the way down. They sounded bored, talking among themselves. It occurred to Grantaire that they may not have any clue about what was going on upstairs. That was even better for him.

Victor and Hugo moved ahead of him as they approached the last turn before coming into view of the guards. Grantaire hung back a little bit, just out of sight.

“Hugo!” One of them shouted, as if they were all friends. Grantaire hoped that was just because VIctor and Hugo were good liars, and not betraying him. “Come down, sit with us for a while. It’s boring as ass down here with queeny.”

“Too bad,” Hugo said. “It’s about to get a lot more interesting.”

Then the sound of a sword being drawn. “Victor, what the -”

And then the unmistakable of that sword being pushed through flesh. The fight started quickly, and Grantaire counted, wanting the guards completely distracted by the fight before he moved in.

One. Two. Three.

A gurgling scream.

Four. Five.

Armor against armor.

Six. Seven.

“Kill the rotten bastards!” shouted a familiar voice. Grantaire’s head shot up. The voice was raw, tired, worn. But it was there, and it was powerful. Chains clanked. The voice groaned.

Grantaire burst into the room, drew his sword as he ran. There was bloodshed, and one dead guard - thankfully not one of his comrades. But his eyes were only half on the fight.

There he was, in a small cell, arms raised and shackled directly to the wall, completely nude. HIs hair was a mess, his legs coated in blood and other things Grantaire did not want to think about. He looked like a man who had been beaten from the moment he was captured, but Enjolras was still shouting encouragement to his men. “GET THEM DO-”

And then he stopped. His eyes took in Grantaire’s shape, Grantaire’s sword. Despite his bruised, cut face, his split lip, his black eye, a smile spread over his face.

“You idiots have NO IDEA THE FORCE YOU’RE DEALING WITH!”

Then the battle was on. Grantaire tore into those guards with a fury like nothing he had ever known. Seeing his husband, seeing brave, strong Enjolras in chains and bloodied in ways Grantaire wished he didn’t understand...it broke something in him. He swung his sword into the first guard he found, bellowing until his lungs hurt. Each stab, each swing, each collision with flesh was accompanied with an animalistic scream. 

He pushed on, driving the tip of his sword under one guard’s helmet and drawing it out only when the spasming stopped. Grantaire turned again, ready to fell another.

But there was only Victor and Hugo, watching him with open mouths, both as blood-stained as him.

The five guards were dead around them. “G-get the key,” he said, shoving his bloody sword back in its sheath. “GET the KEY!”

They scrambled to find the key, shoved in the boot of one man. Grantaire ran to Enjolras’ cell and unlocked the door. “I’m here,” he said. “I’m here, it’s all going to be alright.”

He yanked the door open and rushed to Enjolras’ side. As quickly as he could, Grantaire unlocked his shackles. Enjolras immediately crumpled to the floor. “Shit…” 

“I’ve got you, you’re safe now…” Grantaire knelt and wrapped his arms cloak around him. “Victor, Hugo, can you get the clothes off of the little guard?”

Enjolras leaned against him. “Help me up...I can’t sit...the back of my thighs…these stones take even my healing magic…”

Grantaire helped him up, looking at the floor - it was embedded with those gems. “Alright, let’s get you up.” Gently, he helped Enjolras stand. After a moment, they were delivered the clothing, and Grantaire helped Enjolras to dress.

The sight of the backs of his thighs, whipped raw and bloody, made tears pool in Grantaire’s eyes. “We have to get you out of here. Can I carry you?”

“I...I suppose you have to.” Enjolras let Grantaire hoist him into his arms as they moved towards the stairs. 

Hugo had already gone upstairs, leaving Victor to accompany them. He was holding a second sword. “For you, Prince Enjolras.”

“Thank you, citizen,” he said. “Keep it. Once I’m away from these stones, I’ll start to heal, and maybe I can stand…”

They moved up the stairs quickly, Hugo keeping watch. There was no one in this hall yet, which Grantaire was grateful for. He moved towards the kitchen, only because it was closest. Enjolras was quiet, wincing with the motions and the feeling of his legs healing. 

“I am...so s-”

“Not now, Grantaire,” Enjolras said. “Not now…”

He nearly kicked the kitchen door down upon arrival. There were voices down there, and his heart dropped into his chest. If they couldn’t go down there, Grantaire didn’t know of anywhere close enough to bring Enjolras to rest and heal where he wouldn’t be discovered.

But then a soft voice, that sounded like a cloud, drifted up the stairs. “Here, lay her here…”

“That’s Jehan,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire thundered down the stairs, almost tripping down the last couple. There were a few people down there, laid out on tables. Already injured.

Yet Jehan was there. They looked up to see Grantaire and Enjolras. Relief washed over their face, then horror. “Prince...lay him down, lay him on the counter. I’ll do what I can I’ll get him healed, and with rest -”

“No!” Another interruption from Enjolras.”I need to be able to fight. Get me so I can walk, and I will do the rest.”

“Your highness…”

“Heal me, Jehan.”

Grantaire lay him down. “Enjolras, please...Lucien.”

“You go,” Enjolras insisted. “You go, show them we are not afraid. Show them that nothing will take us down. Teach them a lesson for coming into our country and taking advantage of our people. We will talk when you get back.”

Grantaire took a deep breath. “Alright. Alright. I’ll be back...I’ll see you again, darling.”

Above them, the building shook; dust rained down over them. He had to go. Grantaire would have kissed Enjolras, but Jehan was already hovering over him, healing magic going to work. He nodded and took the stairs two at a time.

Enjolras was correct.

Those idiots had no clue what force they were dealing with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This seems a little rushed at the end and I have a feeling I'll be back to edit but I need to get this posted!


	26. Assistance

Everything was a nightmare. The moment he broke out into the main areas of the castle, Grantaire was surrounded by fighting, by magic, by blood, by death. But he had one goal - find the people in charge and keep them get away. He nearly careened into Bahorel, almost impaled himself on those bone spikes as he turned the corner into the bloodbath the dining room had turned into. Bahorel was just standing there amid gore and wreckage, shoulders heaving and breath coming out in rough, heaving gasps. Grantaire himself was a mess after fighting his way upstairs. He needed, of all things, to find the Thénardiers and exact revenge. Did he believe that Éponine and her siblings should have a say in their fates? Did he think that these monsters should be subject to the law of the land? Yes and yes.

But after how he found Enjolras, they would be lucky to leave the castle alive.

“Bahorel!” Grantaire shouted at the hulking beast of bone and blood before him. “Bahorel! FRANCOIS!”

The man turned, his eyes wild. He was more beast than anything else, eyes nearly blacked over, teeth elongated in a way Grantaire hadn’t seen since Peraesea. Grantaire knew that he was dangerous this way, and didn’t like pushing the transformation this far. 

Usually, something pushed him, past the point of humanity, into the claws of the beast that he usually coexisted peacefully with. Grantaire had only seen completely primal three times, and this was not completely primal. 

But it was close. In fact, grantaire assumed that he was trying to calm himself so he didn’t lose his last hold on his humanity - if he lost himself and attacked an ally, the captain would never forgive himself. Bahorel raised one hand, pointing with a white claw, and growled something that may have been ‘go.’ Grantaire would not question him, and went the way that Bahorel had pointed, to the servants’ stairs that led upwards. What was up there? Bedrooms, the library...the family safe room. If the Thénardiers thought that they were safe in there, they were dead wrong - one could only get in with the right incantation, or the blood of a Ketorian royal. Grantaire would check for them there.

He cleaned one hand of foreign blood as he thundered up the stairs, taking down anyone he came across. Grantaire had a sneaking feeling that, during the battle on the docks, the Medirians had kept half their forces hidden elsewhere to lull the rebellion into a false sense of security. Clever. Annoying, but clever. That meant that he would just be fighting more people than previously thought - nothing Grantaire hadn’t dealt with before. He burst through the first door he came across, out into a hallway of gore. The safe room was up one more floor, but Grantaire didn’t want to risk passing by anyone who may need his help. There was howling, long and animal, and he hoped to every deity that had ever been worshipped that Éponine was not injured. He scanned the hallway quickly, noting an even number of enemies and allies, as far as he could tell - some of the guards were switching sides and a lot of armor was shared over friend and foe alike.

But he saw one man at the end of the hallway get lifted into the air and tossed down the hall; he would have bet anything that Sir Valjean was the source of that. Grantaire made a split second decision: get down to the end of the hallway and meet with him, then take the main stairs up to the second floor, where the royal chambers were, then duck into the servant’s stairs once more to make it to the safe room, which looked like any other expanse of wall. Going up the main stairs might put him out into the open once more, but it was better to face an enemy with room to move than get surrounded in those thin servant’s stairs. It would be better to have someone at his side.

It occurred to him that he was spending a lot of time to get to that safe room when there was no proof that he should. But that was his first thought when Bahorel pointed him up the stairs, and Grantaire had learned to trust his gut.

He delved back into the fray, determined to meet his goal one after one. The very first - get to Sir Valjean, if that was him. Grantaire drove his sword into the first person to come after him, a woman with her hands aflame and a glint of danger in her eye. The flame reminded him of Enjolras. Grantaire hoped that Jehan would be able to keep him from the battle; it was doubtful that even they had that power. He had to push thoughts of Enjolras away. It was not the time to be distracted.

And that fight made distraction impossible. Even the wide hallways of the castle were cramped with so many shoved in between stone walls, with swords swinging, arrows flying, and magic hanging in the air. It was night outside, but the innards of the castle were glowing with magic, with flame, with lightning, with pure light. Anyone outside could see that something was happening. Grantaire barely dodged an arrow aimed at his shoulder before turning and ramming the heavy handle of his sword into the head of someone attempting to sneak up on him. He channeled everything he knew about fighting. Every mock sword fight as a kid, every sparring session in that war camp, all of the Peraesean war, every thing his father, his tutor, or Bahorel had ever taught him. And that was just the sword work. The wind, the very breath from his lungs, snuffed out flames and blew arrows off course as he went. 

He was just part of the fray, which let Grantaire know that Claquesous still lived. It was impossible to move quickly enough to avoid detection in this hallway, but his face must have been in shadow still because no one seemed to recognize. That meant he took friendly fire as well, but he could handle it. Bloody, bruised - he had been this way before. None of it was new.

As he burst through to the end of the hallway, it became clear that yes, Sir Valjean was down here. And behind him, curled into a corner, was one young woman, hardly more than a little girl, with two small boys pushed behind her. From those big, grey-brown eyes and thick, unruly eyebrows, Grantaire knew that she could be no one but Éponine’s sister. Sir Valjean was keeping everyone away from them, whether they were allies or enemies - with the hatred some of his people felt against the Medirians, Grantaire thought it was a good idea. He pushed past the crowd, and approached the large man.

Sir Valjean’s eyes darted over him. “Good,” he said, wisely, not giving naming him or even using ‘your highness’. “Is there a safe place for these children?”

He thought about the safe room. Likely as not, THIS was what Bahorel had been pointing him towards, instead of that hideaway; he would know that Grantaire would never let anything happen to a child. So the safe room should still be an option. Grantaire nodded. “Pick them up and follow me.”

Grantaire swept up a wall of raging wind between them and the battle and Sir Valjean asked the children if he could, in fact, pick them up. Once they nodded he swept them up into his massive arms as if they weighed nothing. Grantaire brought the two edges of his wall around and joined them into a spinning cyclone. It swept the girl’s hair and his own cloak around, but the wind kept any physical attacks from landing.

As for magic, they would have to see. Grantaire pulled Sir Valjean after him into the hall, then fell back to watch from behind. It was funny how quickly his priorities had changed - from getting to the Thénardiers to hiding their children from harm. But these children were innocent, they were Éponine and Gavroche’s siblings...even if they were in no way connected to him, Grantaire would never let anything happen to them.

He and Sir Valjean fought their way up the stairs, the wind keeping people mostly at bay. Things were less violent on the large staircase, but that was only because there was much more space for the battle to spread out. Grantaire dared a look behind him.

The foyer was a mess. Due to his size and smooth, swift movements, Combeferre was easily spotted, bleeding from the chest but locked in combat, his dreads swinging wildly with each expert turn. He kept a whip on his hip but was using the sword given to him by Gavroche. He also caught sight of Claquesous, nothing more than a cloud of black flashing in and out of vision as he moved about the scene. Grantaire nodded and turned back to follow Sir Valjean up the stairs.

“To your left!” he called out as they burst into the third floor hallway. It was quieter here, a seemingly abandoned battlefield. Bodies lined the walls and, in one terrifying spot, hung from the chandelier. Grantaire had to force himself to pass by them, to ignore the urge to examine every face.

Some of them wore the clothing of castle servants.

But Grantaire knew what he had to do - do not look for friends, do not look for anyone he cared for in the dead faces. He just ran with Sir Valjean until they reached the small door to the servants’ stairs. Granatire peeked in first, but no one was there. He ushered Sir Valjean into the hallway and let the wind fall until it was just at their backs.

As Sir Valjean set the children down, the girl - Azelma, if he remembered correctly - looked at him. “You’re the prince.”

“...you can see my face?” he asked carefully, seeking out an open wound of his own and pressing it to a certain stone on the wall. 

“Just now. Couldn’t see it before, but then boom - there you are.” She leaned up and looked him the eye with a steely gaze that was all too familiar. She was young, far too young for an arranged marriage. He felt as if he would be sick. “Gavroche said we should trust you, but I don’t trust a man who hides his face.”

“That’s a good policy,” he admitted. “But you are in danger out here, and I’m friends with your older sister as well. Ep would kill me if I let anything happen to you. You know that, right?”

Azelma huffed. “Fine. FINE. But when this is done, you bring me to her! 

“...not my parents, alright?” Her whole body seemed to deflate, and she seemed even younger.

“After tonight, your parents will never be able to hurt anyone ever again,” Grantaire promised. He swung a section of the wall open, and it revealed a room with a few cots. He lit the oil lamps and ushered the children inside. “Stay in here. Someone will come get you - the moment it’s safe, myself or my husband or one of your siblings will come get you.”

“Or me,” Sir Valjean offered. 

“Or him.” Grantaire promised them one more time that someone WOULD come for them, then shut the door. Once it was closed, the wall looked whole, as if it had never opened at all. Grantaire told Sir Valjean the incantation, then they moved on. 

“Where should we head?” Sir Valjean asked as they thundered out into the hallway. “Where do you think those we seek would have gone?”

“I couldn’t say. Not up. Down. They would be trying to escape…but we should be careful. If those children could see us, our masks are gone. Something must have happened to Claquesous.” 

They ran down the main stairs, and the castle felt as if it were going quiet. But from outside, Grantaire heard screaming. The men didn’t even waste time in discussing it before heading out the castle doors. They were wide open. Granatire glanced around for Claquesous’ body, but saw nothing. 

The battle continued outside; there was no time to waste.

**~~~**

Everything outside of the castle was fire and blood. Lightning flashed through the cloudless sky, and an acid rain concentrated in one area filled the air with a burning, bitter smell. The fighting seemed to be mostly out front, because there was hardly room to move. The gate was wrenched open, the mechanism to raise and lower it smashed beyond recognition. Grantaire assumed that is had been done by Sir Valjean.

That very man split off from him as they took to separate sides of the battle. Grantaire hoped to see him again - Sir Valjean had shown nothing but heart and sincerity since Grantaire met him. 

There was no time to think about that. Just time to fight. He took an arrow to the shoulder almost immediately, and wished that the archers had been taken out. That was the first course of action he liked to take, to disengage the archers. It was easier to watch for a person with a sword than a small arrow whistling through the sky. But he just yanked the arrow head from his flesh and flung it to the side. 

At that point, with the blood, the shared and stolen armor, it was getting more and more difficult to tell who was on which side. Grantaire cast his eyes about the mess as he fought, searching for one thing and one thing only - the blasted Thénardiers. Where were they? If luck stayed on their side, the Thénardiers were still in the castle grounds. If those monsters escaped into the city, Grantaire might never find them.

“HEY!”

The small voice drew his attention through the crowd. And then the Heavensbird whistle, coming from above. Grantaire looked up to see Gavroche sitting in a second floor window. Once the boy caught his eye, he dropped to the ground easily. Grantaire pushed his way over to him. “Gavroche, what are you DOING out here? Get somewhere safe at once, you mu - “

“My parents, you idiot,” Gavroche said, casually yanking a shield from a fallen guard and strapping it to his back. “I know where they are! You have to come with me!”

He wasted no time in going with Gavroche, who was holding a dagger as if he had seen battles of this caliber every day. There was no reason not to trust him, not to believe him. Anyways, grantaire couldn’t fight if he knew Gavroche was in danger; best to keep the boy by his side. “C’mon, c’mon!” The young man zagged through the crowd easily, waiting here and there as Grantaire fought past anyone who got in his way. “They’re hidin’ outside of castle grounds, c’mon, I got a couple other people as well, let’s go!”

It was remarkably easy to duck out of the open gate. Some of the fighting had spilled into the street, but Grantaire moved past it, following Gavroche as he moved into a small side street on the other side of the thin moat. The water was red with flame or blood. Gavroche disappeared into an empty shop front, and Grantaire followed him. Inside were Montparnasse, Musichetta, and Bossuet. 

Yet he barely had time to nod at them before Gavroche was urging them out of the shop’s back door. Grantaire was bleeding from more places than he knew, and he could feel his powers waning. A split lip was making his head pound, his right ankle felt more like jelly than flesh and bone, and that elbow that had taken an arrow was stiff, making it hard for him to hold his sword upright. Still he ran, with the others, following Gavroche’s path. 

It wasn’t a long run until Grantaire saw two guards standing almost out of sight near the house of a noble family that Grantaire knew for a fact were fighting in that castle. “There,” Gavroche whispered, ducking into an alley. “Said they wanted to wait it out and sneak back towards the border, get to one of the countries that they bought off. I came knockin’ just after they got here and they wouldn’t even open the door. Said I was a traitor!”

He said it proudly. Montparnasse laughed - even that sounded dangerous. “Wonder where they got that idea.

“Now you lot stay back - I’ll get the guards outside. Anymore inside?”

“Don’t know,” Gavroche said.

Montparnasse shrugged, then turned on his heel and disappeared. After just a moment, he was coming up the other way, walking casually, clacking his cane against the cobblestones and peering ahead of himself at where the battle was lighting up the sky. 

When he pretended to spot the guards, he looked at them carefully. “Don’t mean to break curfew, ladies,” he said to them, voice suave and charming. “But when I saw all of this happening towards the castle, I simply had to see what was going on.”

“Nothing to worry yourself with,” said one of the guards. She was clearly not impressed with his bouncy hair, dusky skin, or smooth voice. “Get home before we arrest you.”

Montparnasse just batted his lashes at her. “How can you arrest me,” he said. Gavroche pointed to his feet, where a darkness was seeping from his feet into the shadows between the cobblestones. With the thin grooves in the cobblestones, Grantaire lost sight of it until Gavroche nudged him once more to gesture to the guards. Behind them, the shadows extended. 

“When you’re already dead?” Montparnasse finished. The guards looked at each other and reached for their swords, but there was nothing to do - the blackness twirled up their legs and shot through every shaded parts of their bodies before sliding into their mouths.

Not a second later they lay on the ground, no light left in their eyes. Grantaire couldn’t believe that had been so simple...and so terrifying. He had never once seen two people die so easily. Like snuffing out a candle.

The door of course did not open. When they tried the handle, everyone sort of steering clear of Montparnasse. Grantaire was ready to kick it down, but Bossuet turned to look at Chetta. “Do we get in here, love?”

“Let me see if I can tell.” Musichetta pressed her hand to the doorknob and closed her eyes. Everything was quiet for a minute. “No, no...open window, second floor. Grantaire brings Gavroche up and he goes in, comes down and lets us all in the back.”

Grantaire had forgotten her power - Chetta could see a short distance into the future. The people he was working with were amazing.

“Let’s go - before anything happens to change that.” They moved to the side of the house that Chetta had seen, and true enough, there was a window up there. It wasn’t open much, but just enough for a small person to get through. 

Grantaire sheathed his sword and held an arm out to Gavroche “Climb up, friend.”

But Gavroche shook his head. “I don’t need to,” he said, unstrapping his shield and shoving that into Grantaire’s waiting palm instead. “I’ll be down to the back in just a minute - meet me there.” 

He crouched and then leapt into the air...but Gavroche did not come back down. One second he was a boy, the next second he was a bluebird framed against the sky, which was just starting to lighten with the first hints of sunrise. Gavroche easily flew up the distance and darted into the window. It was perfect - he could fly down the stairs without making a single sound.

“Why didn’t your prediction include that, ringlets?” Montparnasse asked.

If it was bait, Chetta did not rise to it. “I didn’t know he could do that.”

“Makes two of us,” Grantaire said. He rolled his shoulders - his entire body was aching and he was ready to lay down. Hopefully when this battle was done he had time for a nice long nap before anything important had to be done.

Somehow he doubted it.

The four of them moved on to the back of the house and, true to form, Gavroche was there already, now in human form and with the door open. “What took you so long?”

Grantaire ruffled his hair.

**~~~**

They came into the house one by one, moving as quietly as possible. The back door lead to a long, thin hallway. “They’re upstairs,” Gavroche said. “I heard them moving around. Only two sets of footsteps - I don’t think they brought any guards! Thought they were so damn clever in hiding here that they wouldn’t even NEED them!”

“Quiet down, little man,” Bossuet said. “You did a fine job, but what now?”

“Now I go see our friends,” Grantaire said. “I want to meet them alone first. I want to meet these monsters face to face for the first time, I want to tell them exactly what they are. I can’t bear to think that have even the SLIGHTEST thought that they will get away with this shit, that they think they will come out victorious heroes when I will work until my dying breath to make sure the world knows them as villains.”

“All fine and good. But going alone is stupid. I’ll come with you, stand outside if you want, but only an idiot would go up there alone.” Montparnasse pushed himself off of the wall he had been leaning against. “Plus, I want to see them too - and I want at least ONE stab for all they did to ‘Ponine.”

“I’m hoping to avoid stabbing them, but if we have to, you’re the one I’ll call,” Grantaire said. “We’ll go up, the rest of you wait down here, at the bottom of the main stairs, the servants stairs if there are any, the door. If anything happens where you feel in danger, get out.”

He took a breath. Too bad he hadn’t found a healer on the way here - with the way his own body refuse to heal itself properly, he was was starting to feel both of the new injuries and the ones that had kept him bedridden for a week. But there could be no waiting - they didn’t want to lose their chance. “Let’s do this.”

**~~~**

Montparnasse and Grantaire crept up the stairs using the same trick with the wind as he had done to sneak into the dungeon. They heard voices - fighting and laughing and hushing, from one male voice and one female voice. Grantaire recognized them easily, and his stomach flopped. 

This was it. Facing off against these people who had come in and effectively destroyed all life as Grantaire knew it. They had invaded his country, take his childhood home. They were attempting to steal and sell his possessions. These people had come in and stripped his citizens of all of their rights, turned them against him, against each other. They had kidnapped Enjolras, had him whipped and who only knew what else.They had killed his father-in-law and most likely his own father.

And they had killed his mother. If it weren’t for these power hungry worms, Grantaire’s mother would live, breath, sing.

They approached the door concealing the voices quietly, but at the idea of meeting his enemy face to face, grantaire’s temper flared. This time he did kick the door down. Sword drawn, Grantaire burst into the room, eyes wild, wind tearing through the place without him even sending it. It was a well decorated room that would have been warm and inviting were it not for the two monsters standing in the middle of the room, wearing nightclothes that were too fancy for even the finest of a ball, much less to sleep in.

Alain Thénardier was a tall, thin man with a scraggly beard, beady little eyes, and a crooked mouth that did nothing but make him seem untrustworthy. He had hands that were too large for his wrists, hair the colour of muddy water, and a ruddy complexion. His wife was far more beautiful, but what Grantaire knew of her spirit destroyed any beauty her face may have held. She tossed her head, red hair falling over chubby cheeks. “I TOLD you they’d find us here, you daft idiot!”

Grantaire pointed his sword. “You do not have permission to talk, madame,” he said. “In fact, I do not want to hear a single thing out of either of you.”

“N’ who are you to give me orders?” Alain said leaning forward and leering. “You ain’t no prince no more, you ain’t nothin’. Your castle is OURS, your country is ours, n’ your wife? Just a couple hours ago she was all mine.”

He took a deep breath, not wanting to rise to the taunts and get distracted by anger. But that vile man just kept on speaking, his voice as greasy as she skin. “She likes to pretend she’s a man, but I’m just bettin’ you’ve never gotten on her on her back before! Let me tell you, she looks real pretty with those legs s-”

Whatever foul thing he was going to say was silenced not by sword, not by magic, but by Grantaire’s fist connecting with his face. The slight pain in Grantaire’s knuckles was worth it, to hear the bone crack in Thénardier’s face as Grantaire drove his fist right into that hideous nose.

The man crumpled, holding his broken, bleeding nose, but his wife did not. She took one swing at Grantaire. He dodged her fist, but not the blade concealed within it’ it gave him a mighty slice diagonally across his face, between his eyes and down the side of his nose. Grantaire swore and grabbed for her, but she was quick with a boot to his gut. 

“Come ON!” she shouted, grabbing her husband to yank him to his feet just as Montparnasse stepped into the room. “Another one, great!”

Montparnasse blended into the shadows of the room, giving the Thénardiers a distraction so Grantaire could pull himself to his feet. The moment he did, he lunged for them, wanting nothing more than to grab at least one of them and find a way to detain them. He pulled Guinevere to the ground and tried to get her arms behind her. But the woman had skill, and she gave him a run for his money. Grantaire cried out as she drove her elbow against his temple, but he did not let her go.

“Why?” he grunted, rolling until he could pin her to the ground.”WHY my country? Why my PEOPLE?

“”W-why my mother?”

His arm was just below her chin, but she grinned at him, gap-toothed and dark. “Because we knew you didn’t stand a CHANCE! Because unlike US, you don’t have the guts to go for what you want! If I was you, I’d kill me right now, but you WON’T! You won’t kill me and take your revenge! THAT’S why! Your country ain’t SHIT, boy, and that’s why we picked YOU! You’re NOTHING but a stepping stool for the REAL winners! You can’t make a ruling decision to ae your life! You won’t make a decisive move and kill the woman who watched and laughed while guards used your wife like a cheap whore!”

Grantaire would not let them do this to him. He would not fall to this, he would - 

He crumpled under a painful blow to the back of his head. Grantaire rolled off of Guinevere as the pain coursed through his body. He blinked, vision swimming to form an image of her husband holding a poker from the fire, dripping with blood. Was that Grantaire’s blood?

“Fuckin’ trash,” Thénardier hissed. He spit in Grantaire’s face, then raised the poker again.

A mass of black cleaved into him, and Grantaire watched with fuzzy vision as Montparnasse pinned the man to the wall. “You people think you’re so much better than us, but you are NOT! You’re nothing, and I hope that ‘Ponine tears your throats out with her own jaws.”

Grantaire forced himself up, used all of his strength to make himself stand. With one shaky arm, he raised his broadsword to point it at the couple. He looked at Guinevere, who was also pulling herself to her feet. The couple shared a look.

And then, she was gone, and he was gone. Both Thénardiers were gone, but one large wasp and a huge beetle flew up into the air towards the window. Grantaire darted after them, but they were fast, wings bringing them to the window. She threw out one last hope - his hand. A tunnel of wind extended from his palm and out the window. 

The bugs tumbled over each other as they were caught in his tornado, and when he let up, they plummeted out of view. Montparnasse raced to the window; Grantaire was a little bit slower. As he poked his head out, he couldn’t see them at all.

But he could hear horses. And in the morning sun he could see that the street was filling with people on horseback from the East of the city. They were marching in perfect unison, and Grantaire didn’t know how he hadn’t heard them before. But now it was clear, with the echoing steps, now the beating on chest plates, and the flags glinting in the early morning sun.

Seven stars in shining silver on a dark background. People as far back as he could see, on jet black horses festooned with silver diamonds.

“Peraesea is here,” he said, hardly believing what he was seeing. A group of horses, a group of people with weapons, and magic, and healers. A new army to push them over the edge and drive these Mendirians from their shores. “PERAESEA IS HERE!”

He turned to run down the stairs, pushing past pain, dizziness, and exhaustion. He had to get down there, to find the Thénardiers, to greet the coming Peraeseans, to welcome this army.

To win this war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope this doesn't feel too rushed.
> 
> Only a couple chapters left now!


	27. Persevere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is the way world ends, not with a bang but with a whimper."  
> \- The Hollow Men, T.S. Eliot

The others were already outside when Grantaire pushed the door open. He saw Chetta with her blade, Bossuet at her side, standing to face the coming army so they knew who was the ally. Montparnasse, who must have slipped out the window, stood out in the middle of the street in full view of the coming forces. He was holding one hand out, palm to them, as if he alone could stop them from trampling what was crouching at his feet.

What was crouching as his feet was Gavroche, looking every bit like a proud child. He should have looked proud, felt proud, because he had silver a goblet pressed to the ground, the open side on the stone. Montparnasse’s foot rested atop the goblet, keeping it in place.

Over the sound of the coming army, Grantaire couldn’t hear a thing, but he would bet anything that buzzing and the thump of wings came from inside that goblet.

He quickly joined them. “Did you capture one?”

“Mother’s in there,” Gavroche said with a grin. “The other miserable bastard flew away, but I got her!”

Grantaire waved a hand to the coming army, who was closing in but not close enough for faces. Then he took his crown, which he had not once left behind after having it knocked off, and raising it high in the air. “Will that contain her?”

“We can’t shift if there’s not enough space, magic won’t allow it,” Gavroche said. “We’ll have to transfer her to something else…”

One rider, from the front of the army, broke out of line and set his horse galloping towards them. He wore the ornate armor of a leader, and Grantaire thought back to the Peraesean War. Was the the armor of a general? No. Nor a captain.

With that silver armor, dark sapphires studding the chest, and helmet with a flat top and wings jutting out from the cheek guards, this could only be one man.

“High Lord Rene Javert,” Grantaire said as the horse slowed to a stop. 

This man had been an ally and once saved his father’s life on the battlefield. Any fears he had of peraesea being here as back up to the Mendirians faded to nothing. Many people had betrayed his family this past few months.

But Lord Javert was a good, loyal man with a backbone of steel and a sense of morality to match. Grantaire dipped his head to the man who was his equal.

Tall and thin, Lord Javert swung himself from his horse. He returned the gesture of respect and removed his helmet to reveal a severe face with cheekbones sharp enough to cut diamonds and a long nose. “A relief to see you still live, Prince Hercule. We would have been here sooner, but your borders are warded against entry.”

“They wanted us to die in a bubble,” Grantaire said. “But this will not be that day.”

“It certainly will not be. Peraesea will not stand for these atrocities.” Lord javert gestured behind him, to where his army was waiting. They stretched down the main road and leaked out of the little side street and alleys.

“My soldiers are 300. Command them as you will.”

**~~~**

Madame Thénardier was kept in a clay jar with a lid tied on by twine, found in the house they just evacuated. Grantaire had the High Lord of Peraesea choose troops to try and hunt down her husband, but even those with tracking powers would have a hard time finding one wasp in all of the city.

According to Gavroche, who stayed behind with an armed guard to keep an eye on that clay jar, no one in the family could stay transformed for more than an hour or so unless limited space or shackles kept them in their animal form. They could wait, and hunt him down when he was a human.

If he hadn’t fled the city by then.

But Grantaire was trying his hardest to let that faction handle the chase. He was much busier in directing the remaining three sections of soldiers. One, to line the outskirts of the castle grounds in case anyone else attempted an escape.

A second, in the command of High Lord Javert, to come in through the now destroyed back wall and wait for those attempting to flee. 

They would flee because Grantaire was borrowing a horse to lead the remaining third faction right in through the broken front gate of the castle.

He wasted no time, hardly letting the other groups go before mounting the horse. One of the Peraesean healers, bless her, healed him as well as they could without giving him any time to rest, and Grantaire was unbearably thankful for that.

He rode through the gates with nearly a hundred armed soldier mages at his back, standing in the stirrups of his horse. Grantaire could have sworn that the battle slowed with the sound of all of those horses. He raised an amplifying orb to his mouth.

“VALORIANS! This is your Prince, Hercule Grantaire!” he cried out, his deep, recognizable voice echoing through the air, and bringing any remaining skirmishes to a halt. “Fear not - hold true to your course, to your cause! The Peraeseans bring aid! The Peraeseans bring one hundred good soldiers and healers to help us reclaim our kingdom!”

A righteous cheer came up at that, from any ally who had heard. He voice was strong, stern, “And we have already dealt a blow to these intruders! “MADAME GUINEVERE THÉNARDIER HAS BEEN CAPTURED!”

Another cheer. As an afterthought, in case anyone was thinking of running to tell her husband, he said, “WE BRING HER WITH US TO THROW IN THE DUNGEON! ANYONE who wishes to surrender to us now, press your backs to the castle wall!

“Everyone else, you have chosen your fates!”

And with that, the Peraeseans stormed the castle and restarted the battle anew.

**~~~**

The difference was immediately noticeable. The Peraeseans were fresh, energized, fully healed. It seemed as if they swept through the courtyard like a fresh rain, wiping away anything undesirable in their path.Grantaire kept at the front, directing the troops around the side of the castle, watching as a few broke off to deal with anyone who was surrendering. It was not as many as he would have hoped, but then again - he had been deceitful about how many soldiers Peraesea had sent, kept that twice the amount he had said were waiting to deliver swift justice. Between that and the lie of having the Madame with them, at last Grantaire felt as if they were gaining the upper hand.

As he approached the castle door, Grantaire swung down from his horse. With 30 people following him, Grantaire pushed into the foyer. It was as messy as he had left it. 

From that angle, he could see what he hadn’t before - Claquesous, throat torn open, flung into a small alcove like he was nothing. Grantaire made a note to send people back to remove his body, but for the moment he had to move, work, reclaim the castle. This was never anything that he had to do, but Grantaire knew one thing - if they could empty this castle of every last living enemy, it was his again whether they had Thénardier captured or not. 

Grantaire pounded up the stairs and dashed into the first battle he found, alongside the long, half wolf shape of Éponine. Her jaw was matted with blood and Grantaire did not get in her way as she tore the throat out of an enemy mage from behind. He also did not waste any time in driving his sword through the chest of a man trying to sneak up behind her. “Have you seen Enjolras?” he shouted, not knowing if she could answer or not.It was starting weigh on him - if Enjolras could fight, he would be in the thick of things and Grantaire had not even glimpsed him. Perhaps Jehan had not let him go; Grantaire doubted that. Éponine cocked her head at him, one ear pointing towards him, the other searching for the sounds of approaching enemies. “Enjolras! Have you seen him!?”

“Thought…” she seemed to struggle with the words. “He would be...with you…”

Then her nose twitched and she was gone, running in the opposite direction on all fours despite her half-human body. A group of battered looking Mendirian mages rounded the corner slowly, but there was no safety for them in their numbers - not with the ferocity of Éponine’s attack. One slipped past her and ran down the hall. As the mage spotted Grantaire, she raised her hands to release a trembling, half frozen stream of water. Grantaire’s sword whistled through the air as he ran towards her

He did not even wait to hear her head hit the ground before he was at Éponine’s side again. They quickly demolished the group of mages before they were left alone once more in the bloodied hall. 

“The Peraeseans are here to aid us,” he said quickly, trying to bring Éponine up to speed. “Your siblings are in the royal safe room upstairs, except for Gavroche, who is hidden away and keeping your mother captive with a slew of guards to keep her there while others hunt down your father.”

She nodded and gave a victorious howl - then she licked his face in a way he vowed to mock her for later before taking off at a full run for the next battle.

**~~~**

As Grantaire climbed the stairs, he found battles less and less frequently. He pushed up, exploring every single floor. He found fewer and fewer enemies.

But he found bodies. Bodies of guards that he had known. Bodies of servants, and bodies of seamstresses. The head seamstress, however, was clinging to life with all she had. Grantaire saw her laying in the middle of the fifth floor hallway, her face bloody and her hands crushed.

Grantaire almost moved past her, thinking her head. There was nothing he could do for the dead. But then he saw her lids flutter open. He nearly fell to his knees at her side. “It’s alright,” he whispered to her. “It’s alright…”

The woman jerked her head to the side, and Grantaire worried that she was suffering from some sort of seizure. He held her head still and she opened her mouth. But she did not speak. She couldn’t.

Her tongue was gone. Grantaire closed his eyes and swore. “I’m going to pick you up and bring you somewhere safer. We’re winning, we’re winning, and things will be fine…”

Even as he picked her up, she struggled. But Grantaire could not just leave her there. So he took this woman, whom he had known his entire life, and put her safely in the wardrobe of the first room he found. “I’ll be back,” he said, shutting the doors almost all of the way. The woman shook her head and jolted it to the side again, but Grantaire couldn’t wait here with her forever. “I’ll be back for you, or someone will. I promise.”

Then he left her behind, urgency still in her eyes. But Grantaire had to keep moving. He had to find Enjolras and clear out this castle.

By the time he reached the highest open part, he had stopped running into ay enemies. He scouted what they referred to as the roof, making sure that no one lingered. When he found no one, Grantaire crossed to the back wall of the castle to peak over into the back courtyard. Surely Enjolras was down there.

He wasted no time by returning down the stairs; Grantaire used the very air to lower himself to the ground, keeping close to the wall of the castle. On his way down he spotted High Lord Javert, now taller than anyone else by at least five feet and made out of stone and taking what looked like no damage. Grantaire could see that the battle was dwindling. More bodies. Joly, on the ground, eyes unfocused but chest rising and falling. Cosette in a tree, a piercing screech coming from her throat, white dress coated in blood. 

And more Mendirians on the ground than anyone else. Pride swelled in him as he saw his people taking down the last of those who opposed them left outside. Grantaire pushed into the fading brawl until everything in the back courtyard was still. He nodded at High Lord Javert, who called in a gravelly voice, “Clean this garbage up!”

Grantaire nodded, feeling confident in leaving this to him. Still, he wandered through the bodies, looking for any sign of Enjolras, searching for the grey clothes he had been dressed in or a hint of early sun off of those golden curls. But he was not back there, among neither the living nor the dead.

With a sigh that was equal parts relief and growing anxiety, Grantaire entered through the staff entrance and found the kitchen full. Apparently Jehan was still reigning over the kitchens, using the many tables and other food preparation stations to lay out those who needed to be healed. He scanned the room and did not see Enjolras. He put a hand on Montparnasse’s impossibly clean shoulder as he sat next to the body of Claquesous; someone else must have brought him down.

That was when Grantaire realized that most of the bodies surrounding him were corpses.

He took a deep breath through his nose and sought out Jehan, who was sweating, pale, hunched over someone with their intestines more in their hands than in their stomachs. Grantaire rested his hand on that person’s forehead, but they were too far gone to notice.

“Jehan,” he said quietly. “You need to sit down - you can’t have much power left.” 

“...wh-while there are still people to heal, I will not rest…” But their voice sounded less confident and more like they were about to vomit. 

“Have you seen Enjolras?” Grantaire asked, not wanting to distract them but need to know.

“After...after you brought him down last night...I healed him, and then...he took off, I don’t...I don’t know…” Jehan straightened up, then crumpled to the ground - they must have used up all of their energy on this.

A pained shout came from behind him. Montparnasse pushed past him to kneel at Jehan’s side. Grantaire, unsure of what to do, told Montparnasse to lay Jehan somewhere comfortable and left.

**~~~**

When Grantaire returned to the battle, it could hardly be called that. The castle was quickly emptying out. If he was honest, this all felt a little anti-climactic. No epic face off with the Thénardiers, no moment where he thought all was lost until one last burst of strength pushed him through.

Or maybe it had already happened and it never felt as glorious as it sounded. 

Nothing felt glorious as he moved through the bloodied castle, picking off stragglers and searching through the mess for Enjolras. Enjolras, who he could not find a place for after leaving him in Jehan’s care five or six hours ago.

Despite the dread pooling in his stomach, Grantaire continued on.

Out in the courtyard, he saw people being bound together by the Peraeseans, marking everyone with wards to guard against magic and searching every single Mendirian and traitor for weapons. Grantaire moved along the lines, making sure to look anyone he knew to be a traitor in the eye.

“Your highness,” came a voice from the crowd. Grantaire turned to see Cosette, nursing a vicious bruise and holding her arm close to her side. “Grantaire, have you seen Enjolras…”

“No, not since he was being healed,” he said, helping her to sit down.

“And what of my father?” She was breathing heavily, and Grantaire motioned for a healer to come to them. “Have you seen him? Does he live?”

“As of a couple hours ago, he lived. I have not seen him since.” He was about to sit with her, calm her down, when a clawed hand pushed him to the side. Éponine was shifting back to human form even as she wrapped her arms around Cosette and pulled her close. 

Cosette buried her face in Éponine’s neck as Grantaire took a step back. “Go get my brother and mother,” Éponine said, not at all shy to command a prince. “Bring them back here - if Father escapes then we will at least have the woman. And I can’t stand not knowing exactly where Gavroche is.”

“I’ll be back. Your other siblings should still be in the safe room.” And then he kissed both of them on the cheek before dashing off again.

**~~~**

There were still battles lingering outside of the castle grounds. Grantaire saw no beautiful fierce eyes and felt no heat from Enjolras’ fire. He tried to ignore that, to repeat to himself that Enjolras was a seasoned warrior with powerful magic who knew how to handle a sword.

But he was slight, and had just been healed. Grantaire felt a tightness in his chest, rising up his throat. No. Not now - do not let it take over. What was it that Enjolras himself had said? _One hurdle at a time._ Grantaire could do that. Go to Gavroche. Bring him and his mother back to the castle.

Once Madame Thénardier was imprisoned in a more permanent way, perhaps this would feel like the victory it was very close to being. 

Grantaire approached the house Gavroche had been in and nodded at the guards there. One of them stepped forward and spoke, in a heavy accent. “The man - he attempted to come back. Someone went for you, did not return.”

“The man...Thénardier?” The guard nodded. “Is Gavroche alright?”

“Young boy? Yes, he is safe, and bug lady, but large man with beard chased man. Still gone.”

Grantaire felt something flare in his stomach. A large man with a beard? Perhaps Sir Valjean. He took a deep breath. “Direct me which way the chase went, and then I want you and all of your fellows to take Gavroche and the jar to the castle, right down that way. Your commander is there, as well as Gavroche’s sister. Find them and they will help you to the dungeons.”

The guard nodded, and repeated back as best as she could. Grantaire clapped her on the shoulder then took off in the direction the guard had pointed him in.

**~~~**

He pushed himself as quickly as he could, wishing he had thought forward enough to bring a horse. But Grantaire was never well known for planning ahead. Grantaire ran until his lungs ached, checking side streets, pausing now and then to direct anyone he found on the streets to the safety of the castle. There were Mendirians he found, and people from both sides of the former border between Ketor and Elus.

But Enjolras was nowhere to be found/

Just as Grantaire was ready to turn and start running to the East, hoping to circle around and find them, he heard the unmistakable sound of rock being dragged against rock. A deep voice rumbled, “Stay calm and I will get you out!”

Grantaire judged the sound to be about two blocks away and changed his course. That voice could not have been anybody except for Sir Valjean, and Grantaire was so grateful. As he approached the scene, he slowed and muffled his steps. 

When he poked his head around the corner, he saw Sir Valjean just as he had expected. The man was hoisting heavy bits of rubble from a house that had clearly just fallen recently, judging from the settling. There was someone moving under the stones, someone struggling.

Sir Valjean stepped to the side and saw that it was Thénardier, trapped by one leg and covered in soot. He was not screaming as much as he was hissing bribes under his breath. “Free ma and I’m yours, big fella, free me and you can have anything - I got money, I got women, men...I can give you anything if you just get these rocks off of me and walk away like it never happened, see?”

“Stop grovelling,” Sir Valjean said. “We as man, must take responsibility for our actions - I suggest you do so with dignity.”

“Just get this damned thing off me!”

Grantaire watched Sir Valjean heave one last piece of wall, and had a sick sense of justification seeing the way that leg hardly recognizable as a limb - payment for what had happened to Feuilly. If they were no longer alive when this battle was done, Grantaire was going to exact revenge the likes of which the planet had never seen. Feuilly was an innocent; for that sort of thing to happen to them was heartbreaking.

For it to happen to Thénardier for vindication.

He strolled around the street corner, sword out and pointed at the man on the ground. “Stay where you are,” Grantaire said, realizing that it was probably an unnecessary addition with his leg being mostly mist and fragments of bone. “Alain Thénardier, you are hereby under arrest by the royal crown of Aenorium Valoris for your crimes of infiltration, conspiring against the crown, and murder.”

Before Thénardier could even open his mouth, Sir Valjean had torn one of the long sleeves from his shirt and used it to bind Thénardier’s wrists behind his back. 

“I recommend that you stay quiet,” Grantaire said, even as Thénardier yelped at how roughly Sir Valjean picked him up, jostling that stump of a leg. “You are not among friends or anyone who will listen to your bribery.

“There’s only one person with more claim to your head than me,” Grantaire said. “Sir Valjean, let’s reunite this man with his wife in the dungeons and see what Éponine wants to do with them.”

**~~~**

The courtyard was still lined with bodies when Grantaire and Sir Valjean returned, but by now, they were a little more orderly. Éponine stood on the castle gates with Bahorel, finally a human again as well though looking haunted and tired, directing the Peraeseans to where they could bring prisoners, or the injured, or bodies. 

But as Grantaire entered the courtyard, everything seemed to freeze. He was no longer wearing his crown, with no idea when or where he lost it, but apparently he didn’t need it to be recognizable. He looked through that crowd and saw no blazing brown eyes, no proud chin, no golden hair.

Enjolras was not there.

He met Bahorel’s eyes but the man’s glance gave away nothing. So Grantaire just cleared his throat, knowing that everyone was waiting for him.

“Attention good people of Aenorium Valoris and Peraesea!” he called out, thankful that his voice carried. “Tonight, you have all fought valiantly, and I could not be more grateful! Tonight, you have shown me that there is honor and bravery to be found in everyone! My people, you have shown me what a just country I am going to lead. Peraeseans, you have shown me how a true ally responds, and I could never thank you more for your assistance and sacrifice!

“Tonight we took back the castle. Tonight, I take the throne back.” Hopefully not without someone at his side. “Tonight, we captured the Thénardiers, who were at least some of the players behind this terrible attack and invasion.

“They are in our custody now, and the flag of Aenorium Valoris will ride anew.”

Sir Valjean carried Thénardier, who seemed to have passed out from either pain or blood loss, through the crowd of people cheering, sending up national anthems in wavering, exhausted voices, or shouting insults and jeers at the trussed up Mendirian. 

Grantaire followed, watching Éponine glare at her father as Sir Valjean took the steps two at a time. He accepted congratulation, thanks, and consolations. With the crowd of people trying to speak with him, it took Grantaire longer than necessary to get to the steps of the castle. It was there that Bahorel crushed him close in a powerful embrace. “Thank the gods,” he whispered. “I didn’t think I would see you alive again.”

But Grantaire only had four words as he relied on his oldest friend to keep him standing up straight.

“Have you seen Enjolras?”

“No one has,” he said. “The last person to concretely identify him was Jehan, when he left the kitchens. Hercule, I’m sorry, but...no one knows where Enjolras is.”

Those words were worse than any injury Grantaire suffered that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters left! Thanks for reading!


	28. Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know I just posted...but I couldn't wait.

The panic swelling in Grantaire overcame any exhaustion. He asked every person he could find if they had seen Enjolras, while weaving in and out of the dead bodies. Grantaire came upon Bossuet and Chetta fretting over a barely conscious Joly, but the guilt he felt at simply passing them by was not enough to stop him from doing exactly that. He found his own personal servants from the castle - some were alive and safe. Some were not. Grantaire followed a line of soldiers carrying bodies to the destroyed barracks and saw another of Montparnasse’s fellows there, injured but still with that aching smile on his face as he counted bodies. There were Mendirians there, people from the rebellion, and a few Peraeseans being hauled in, laid out in rows and left until they could be identified and either claimed by family or sent back home. Grantaire promised himself that he would build a graveyard for anyone left behind. He felt guilt coating the inside of the stomach, seeing all of the people who had died for him.

And he found Bijoux. His beautiful horse was still alive, in special stables, done up in Mendirian colours but alive and sweet. He took a moment, just a moment, to hold that horse around the neck. Grantaire stroked her fur and tried to take some comfort in the fact that even if everything else in the world was changing and different, Bijoux was still there for him. He did not see Patria and hoped that maybe Enjolras had taken her and fled.

That was not in Enjolras’ nature, however. He was not the sort of man to abandon anyone in need even if doing so would save his own life. Grantaire wanted to find Enjolras, hold him close, and tell him how admirable and stupid of a trait that was.

He could account for his closest friends - Combeferre helping the healers while ignoring his own wounds. Éponine down in the dungeon with her siblings, Cosette, and Sir Valjean. His trio of friends among the injured, Bahorel shouting to the Peraeseans and directing them the easiest ways to move about the castle and grounds. Jehan still blessedly asleep, guarded fiercely by Montparnasse in the kitchens. Courfeyrac hopefully nowhere near the battle, staying in the bunker with Feuilly and others who could not come.

But Grantaire could not account for Enjolras. No one could. Where could he be? Grantaire tried to take comfort in one idea, one that everyone he spoke to repeated to him: If Enjolras was dead, his body would have been found by now.

He wanted to believe in that, but he wasn’t so sure.

A small search party was set up to search for him. Grantaire could not think of where it would be best to look, so he sent some people to search the inside of the castle, the woods behind it, and the streets surrounding it.

Grantaire himself took to combing through the outside. Enjolras had to be somewhere; a whole person didn’t just disappear off of the face of the earth. He brushed off anyone who tried to make him sit and rest just to push himself around the castle. He checked in gardens, sent a small group of people to search the hedge maze, and cleared through every copse of trees or heavy group of bushes he saw. It was truly dawn by the time Grantaire had to admit that maybe the worst had happened.

For the first time in his life, he wasn’t ready to accept the worst.

He walked the outside of the castle one more time. As he came along the Western side of the castle, Grantaire heard voices in the back. Not wanting to see anyone look at him with the pity that was starting to become apparent on the face of everyone he passed, Grantaire ducked into a small niche in the castle wall, a place where the wall dipped in and back out to make room for a statue that hadn’t been there in sixty years. Now it was just a little grassy area about ten feet in diameter that went mostly ignored. In fact, he had forgotten about it entirely - after all, what need did he have for an abandoned patch of grass? But for the moment, he was pleased to have found it.

Grantaire stood in the shade offered to him by the tall walls, looking towards the sky finally turning blue after being every other color the morning could offer. He looked to the clouds, rolling in innocently as if they did not hover over a hundred dead bodies. A moment of respite, then he would begin the search anew.

Then something caught his eye.

A fluttering of red in the sky, along the high castle wall. Up there, on the fifth floor...no, the sixth, the half a floor that belonged to the seamstresses for their frequent orders and alterations...something was hanging out of the window, red, glinting in the morning sun that just peeked over the walls as the sun inched ever higher in the sky. Grantaire placed his hand flat over his eyes and peered upwards.

Something was sparkling from that window in every different shade of red. Torn, tattered, but still splendid and bright. It was tangled up around a slight form; a figure, brown and bruised, clothed in gray under the red keeping it from plummeting to the ground. 

And gold. Golden curls dangling towards the ground.

Grantaire could hardly believe what he saw. Enjolras, in plain sight this entire time, half out of the seamstress’ window, dangling upside down with nothing supporting him except for that red dress he had hated caught in the corners of the window.

To name the sound Grantaire made was impossible. He was ashamed to say that he hesitated, watched his husband hang from that window, arms pointed down, face slack, eyes closed. But then the shock wore off and Grantaire moved. He did not have the patience nor the fortitude to either call for help or run into the castle - too many people, too many stairs stood between himself and Enjolras.

Grantaire summoned what was left of his energy to propel himself up on a soft summer breeze. As he rose he saw that Enjolras looked worse than he had in the dungeon. One arm hung a little longer than the other and looked as if it were popped from its socket. His face was bruised and bloody, his chest a nightmare of cuts and slashes.

The dress’ material was what saved him - all of that material was the sort to catch, and it clung to every textured surface of the wooden edged window that it touched. Grantaire peeked into the room past Enjolras and saw not a single dead seamstress, but five dead Mendirians. Grantaire took a deep breath and pulled Enjolras into his arms, putting the arm that did not seem injured over his shoulders and hooking his own arm under Enjolras’ knees.

He dared not check if the man was breathing.

Grantaire pulled the dress free and let it fall to the ground before him; his feet touched the ground just a moment after. Gently, carefully, he carried Enjolras to the sun and lay him on the ground. Someone would come upon them any moment, but Grantaire took that time to gently arrange Enjolras’ hair about his face. He pressed his fingers just behind Enjolras’ ear, wondering if he would be able to feel a pulse with the way his own heart was racing.

Before he could put enough pressure on that spot, though, Enjolras’ lids fluttered. Grantaire’s breathe caught in his throat. Enjolras’ gaze was tired and a little unfocused, but his eyes sought out Grantaire’s.

“You’re...you’re here,” he croaked through blood-stained lips.

“I’ll always be here,” Grantaire whispered. “I’ll never leave you, Lucien. You’re safe, and I am by your side. I’ll call a healer, and you will be alright.”

Enjolras raised a shaky hand to grasp at Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire lowered himself and pressed their foreheads together. “I love you, Lucien Enjolras. Will you marry me?”

He closed his eyes and let Enjolras just touch his face. Enjolras struggled, but managed to speak. “We’re...already married.”

“Marry me again,” Grantaire said, lips an inch from Enjolras’. “Because I cannot live without you. You have become my all, my everything. I will keep you safe and cherish you forever, because you are the most precious person in the world to me. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“I love you too,” Enjolras whispered, and raised his head for one soft kiss. Grantaire, of course, returned it. There were footsteps and voices once again, but this time Grantaire would not shy away. These people would come around the corner any moment, they would see them, see Enjolras’ wounds and call for a healer. Enjolras would be healed. They would take the crown and throne. They would fix their country.

But for just one minute, Grantaire was going to lay with his husband in the first morning of their new country.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, just the epilogue left now! :3 Thanks for reading!


	29. Epilogue

Grantaire’s hands were steady as he lowered a newly forged crown onto Enjolras’ head; there was a weight just above his brows as Enjolras did the same for him. He smiled at his husband before they turned to face the crowd that completely filled the throne room. Both inclined their heads to their people.

“Good people of Aenorium Valoris,” Combeferre announced from off to the side. To oversee the crowning ceremony and announce the new royalty would normally be the job of a highly ranked religious figure or any remaining family members. But neither Enjolras nor Grantaire was highly religious, and Queen Pinar had been removed to recover in her own home in the South. As there had been no time to appoint people to any offices or ranks, Combeferre - now the Great Duke of Terath - was the the second highest ranked person in all of Aenorium Valoris.

No one above him had survived.

In the four days since the battle, since the imprisonment of the Thénardiers, since Grantaire had wept and held Enjolras while healers pushed wave after wave of magic over both of them, they had counted their losses, healed who they could, and buried who they could not. Grantaire would have been happier to wait longer, get more things settled, but even a day had been too long for them to not have an official ruler and protector of the realm.

Now he and Enjolras were crowned - by each other, as the only suitable, legal family either one of them had left - and were facing their people at last. 

Combeferre continued. “Look upon your kings and see in them the future of your country, the safety of your children, the guarantee of your rights. I now present to you King Hercule Grantaire and King Lucien Enjolras.”

As one, the crowd stood. Well, those who could. But everyone dropped into a bow or curtsy as Grantaire and Enjolras descended the stairs towards them, hands clasped between them. While the eyes were off them, Grantaire leaned over to put his mouth near Enjolras’ ear. 

“I shall never forgive you for abandoning my last name,” he teased.

“When we have a child, I shall make it up to you and name them Grantaire Grantaire,” Enjolras shot back.

Grantaire chuckled, straightening up as those in front of him did. The crowd in front of them split open, leaving a pathway so they could walk past everyone and lead the way to the feast and ball that was waiting in the grand ballroom to celebrate the coronation and the end of this war. 

Sir Valjean and Lady Cosette were the first they passed. Sir Valjean inclined his head while Lady Cosette just winked at them. High Lord Javert was still there, lending the Peraeseans as guards until Aenorium Valoris got back on their feet. 

When they passed Courfeyrac, Grantaire reached out and squeezed his arm. Whereas most people without sight chose dark spectacles, Courfeyrac seemed to have chosen a bright pink glass instead. Courfeyrac gave them a bright smile. Grantaire wished that he had time to stop and talk to these people individually, but the time for that would come during the ball.

Joly, who looked exhausted but well, stood with Bossuet and Musichetta. All three of them dropped low as Grantaire and Enjolras passed, though Grantaire wished that they wouldn’t. But all three of them were grateful, because in a week their wedding was planned. Grantaire and Enjolras had discussed having a second ceremony to go with their new marriage certificate, with Enjolras’ proper name on it, and quite a few people who were still able offered to volunteer any goods or services for a celebration.

So they planned the wedding, then gave it to Joly, Bossuet, and Chetta. Grantaire was a man who kept his promises.

After them, Éponine stood with her siblings, all of whom had chosen to stay in the country at least until their parents had been sentenced. But all of them looked better, healthier, and Grantaire was glad to see that. 

Next to Éponine was Patron Minette, minus Claquesous. Grantaire had expressed his condolences over that to them before, but it was still strange to see them without him. Jehan, after so many days of nearly non-stop healing, looked wane and almost ill, but was smiling and holding Montparnasse’s hand.

Then it was Bahorel, now in the third most powerful rank in the country, bowed heavily at the waist. He too looked exhausted, and Grantaire considered replacing the ball with nap time. But despite how tired he looked, Bahorel was beaming, eyes shining nearly glowing with joy.

That was because Feuilly sat next to him in a wheelchair, weak legs covered with a blanket, and looking worse for wear. But they were there. Feuilly was alive, awake, and bowing their head. This time it was Enjolras’ turn to reach out; he squeezed Feuilly’s hand on the way past and Grantaire nearly had to drag him away. They would see Feuilly soon, and everyone.

This ball would last all night.

**~~~**

“I forgot what a terrible dancer you were,” Grantaire said as Enjolras turned him about the floor, empty except for them - not for much longer, though. The bars of music reserved just for them were almost over, which Grantaire was glad for; he did not like everyone watching them.

“I’m not used to this role,” Enjolras said. His hand was on Grantaire’s waist, and he was supporting Grantaire’s hand in the air. “This is the position for men to dance in where I’m from, so I’ve only done it a few times.”

Grantaire smiled and kissed him once. “You’re doing amazing.” 

He was. Grantaire wanted to clutch him close, if only for the novelty of his body - Jehan had come to them last night with the first batch of potions and spells for Enjolras, to flatten his chest, square out his jaw, and deepen his voice. Already his chest was smaller and his shoulders felt more solid. Enjolras would not be any taller and hadn’t thought about anything, ahem, lower, but Grantaire did not care about either of those things. He just wanted Enjolras to be happy.

They were soon surrounded by others dancing. Some of them were from the rebellion, some of them were those that had been hidden within the city or suffering in parks like Grantaire had seen. Some of them, Grantaire knew, were those who had betrayed him, but Grantaire knew who they were and despite his offer of amnesty, wanting to start his country with forgiveness, he would always remember who they were. 

After the first dance, he and Lady Cosette traded partners, leaving her whisking Enjolras across the floor and Grantaire taking Éponine in his arms. “I’ve never seen you in a dress,” he said, looking down at her simple grey satin gown. “It suits you.”

“Dresses were never suitable for what I did, but now? I think I can pull it off.” She smiled. “You actually look like a king. I had hoped you would.” 

“Thank you, my dear,” he said.

He felt thrown back in time when she said, “I am not your dear.”

“You sound just like Enjolras.”

“Thank you.”

Grantaire laughed as he turned Éponine about the floor. “Does it please you to know that we dance while your parents are imprisoned just below us?”

“More than anything.” But then her expression turned sour. “I cannot get either of them to admit to anything. All I get is Father saying ‘Shouldn’t we all get what we deserve? Why you picking them over us? This stupid country is gonna fall with or without us so you should make sure we have a shot, family does for family!’ I could hardly stomach it.”

“What did you tell him?”

Éponine smiled then. “That yes, family does for family, but I have to family in that cell. Not after all of the death, all of the terror, and what Father did to Enjolras...I will have to think long and hard about what should be done with them. Can you give me another week?”

“I can give you a lifetime,” he said. Grantaire was content to let them rot down there for however long it took her to decide.

He danced for what felt like years. With Enjolras, with Cosette, with Joly, Chetta, Bossuet, Courfeyrac, Jehan - everyone who wanted a dance got one. It was fun, easy and gentle after all of the struggles they had gone through. Grantaire knew that life was still going to be tough on them for a while, and that everything was different now that he was King, but as he looked at the sea of people supporting him, Grantaire thought he would be able to handle it after all.

For the last dance before dinner, Grantaire took ahold of not someone’s waist or hands, but the wooden handles of a chair. “May I steal you away for a moment?”

Feuilly turned to look at him over their shoulder. Through the loose collar of their shirt, Grantaire could see the scars of those words, now their country’s official motto. It still made him feel sick to see, so he kept his eyes on that freckled face. “I suppose you could,” they said, reaching across themself with a wince to pat his hand. “I could take a chance on you.”

Grantaire wheeled them out onto the floor. “Darling, how are you feeling?”

True to form, Feuilly did not say a word about the term of endearment. “Tired. Aching. But...I suppose I can’t complain. I’m alive, and they left my hands alone…”

That nearly made him cry. “Feuilly, I am so sorry about this. All of this is...it’s too much. This should not have happened to you. You are brave and good, and I love you as if you were my sibling, so to see you like _this_...does it hurt terribly?”//

“Usually at the end of the day, yes. But the healers think that in time I may walk again one day, and I’m not losing my legs, so things aren’t all bad.” They laughed a little as Grantaire pulled them up onto just their back wheels and spun them. “I don’t blame anyone here for what happened. I knew what I was getting into. I’m glad to have done what I could have. Though I wish I could have been there for the final battle.”

“I am glad that you were not there. I wish I could spare everyone that fate.” Grantaire sighed but still smiled and bent down to kiss Feuilly’s cheek. “Have you danced with Bahorel?”

“Every dance,” they said gently. “Except this one, and once with Enjolras before.”

“Good.” Grantaire could see him in the crowd, dancing with one of the guards. “He’ll take care of you until it kills him if you let him.”

“I wouldn’t let it get that far,” they said. “But don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Still - in the seating chart for the sit down dinner, Grantaire had made sure that Feuilly and Bahorel were seated next to each other, on his right. On his left, Enjolras, and past that Cosette and Éponine, who Grantaire noticed were holding hands on the table. Ah. How cut was that? The noble lady and the wolf of the revolution? Minstrels would sing songs about that one. Of course, Éponine would be getting her own title when they finally decided on things like that.

After the state the country had been in, any extra money had gone to rebuilding business, helping to rehome people, and fixing up anything else they could. However, the people of Aenorium Valoris had come together and used what extravagant food the Thénardiers had unnecessarily filled the kitchens with to create a feast - cooks from noble families had come in, as well as just everyday people. There was enough cooked for tables to be set up in the town square as well, for anyone not at the ceremony. 

So for the first time in months, everyone at their fill. Enjolras ate as much as Grantaire did, and he was impressed. They ate through the first two courses, and as dessert was being placed in front of them, Grantaire took Enjolras’ hand and laced their fingers together. “I love you,” he said, a simple statement that he had made every day since Enjolras had been brought back from brink of death. “I love you so very much.”

Enjolras raised those hands and kissed Grantaire’s fingers. “I love you, too. Will you ever tire of saying that to me?”

“Never.”

Things were calm, and peaceful. Dessert was quickly demolished, and Grantaire felt almost too full for the fireworks that were meant to take place. But it would not be long before he could fall into bed - his parent’s bed, since they would be moving into the Kings’ suite tonight - and sleep. Everything was simple for now, and everything was easy. 

So when there was a commotion out front, the sounds of shouting and armor clanking, everything froze. Nearly as one, everyone in the ballroom set stopped eating, every head in the room turned either towards him or towards the doors. Shouting, more shouting, metal clinking, footsteps, more shouting...sounds that were like stone grating on stone to Grantaire’s ears. His heart sank into his stomach. Grantaire stood up, ready to launch himself over the table as the sounds grew closer to the ballroom doors. The guards at the door unsheathed their swords, and the guards at every window prepared to do the same.

No. Grantaire could not take this now - not right now, when everything had been fixed, he would not let someone come in and try to take it all from him again, not now that everything was calm and soft.

The doors flew up and Grantaire drew his sword.

Then his father stepped in and Grantaire’s sword crashed to the ground.

Heitor Grantaire looked as if he had been through hell. He was bruised, scraped up, with his hair longer than it had been and his usual beard long gone. It looked as if he had dropped twenty pounds in a very unhealthy way and his clothing was nearly hanging off of him.

But he was there, and he was alive, and Grantaire was weeping. He did jump over the table, to run through the rows of stunned people, passing everyone until he could wrap his arm around his father. He received a very weak embrace in return, but he knew his father was crying as well. 

“I-I’m so sorry, son,” he said. “To have left you when you needed me most…”

“I’m sure you did what you could,” Grantaire whispered. “What happened to you?”

King - no, King Father Heitor now, Grantaire supposed, this was so odd - Heitor sighed. “I went West, in hopes of contacting someone in Treil for assistance, with a group of guards...but they did not make it and I become hopelessly lost. I was infected, I was addled...a family of nomads helped nurse me back to health but had no clue who I was and would not believe even I told them. Not that I would blame them. I had no crown and no one looks kingly covered in filth. I stayed with them until I could move again and had to find a way into the country...it’s all so much. I can tell you more later.”

“That’s right, Father, you need to rest, you should lay down, see a healer…”

But Heitor just shook his head. “I need to see your mother first…”

Grantaire would have fought anything but that. EVeryone was watching them, but he kept his voice down in this matter of family. “We...didn’t have anything of her left to bury, only ashes so dry they hardly count. They are working on a statue of her for the plot, but - her favourite dress is buried in the back, with those ashes.”

“I need to see her,” he said. Grantaire made to follow as he passed, but Heitor waved him away. 

“Enjoy your ball, you royal majesty,” he said loudly, so everyone could hear. “I will pay my respects to your mother, then rest as you have offered me. I will see you tomorrow, and I will be happy to observe your first full day as King - most fathers in my line of work never get to see this day.”

There was a light ripple of laughter, but everyone still shocked as Heitor made his way through the ballroom, to where it opened up in the garden. He nodded and waved to people as he passed, but no one made a move. Grantaire would have offered to help him, but knew his father wouldn’t have liked that. He just watched as that glorious man reached the door. Heitor turned and bowed low to his son.

“You are going to be a wonderful king. I am so proud of you...and I know my darling Pinar is, too.”

There was a round of applause as he slipped into the back garden, towards the family plot. No one was clapping harder than Grantaire.

**~~~**

Enjolras stood by his side on the balcony overlooking the back garden. It was packed with people watching as mages and alchemist sent bright bursts of colour and fire into the air. They held hands, and Enjolras leaned his head against Grantaire’s shoulder. By the colorful bursts of light, Grantaire could make out the shapes of people below them. His family, his friends, his citizens. People he would live and die for. People who would always do his best to be worthy of. Down there was Bahorel, likely sitting with Feuilly. Perhaps Cosette was tucked under Éponine’s arm with Gavroche and the younger kids watching the show from all around them. Maybe Joly, Chetta, and Bossuet shared a blanket, thinking of their upcoming wedding. Combeferre most likely thinking of the work left to do, Courfeyrac telling everyone who would listen how beautiful the fireworks looked until someone got the joke. Jehan sat on the ground, Montparnasse leaning against them. Sir Valjean boosted small children up so they could see. 

His father sat at his mother’s grave.

And Grantaire stood with his husband, kings of their new land. “This is it,” Grantaire said, looking not at the fireworks but at the crowd of people. “This is our new kingdom.”

“It is,” Enjolras said, wrapping his hand around Grantaire’s bicep. “Are you ready for another adventure?”

Grantaire turned his eyes to Enjolras and cupped his cheek; his thumb grazed that thin scar. “With you at my side? Nothing will be easier.”

He leaned down and kissed Enjolras against the glowing back drop of fireworks among the shining, twinkling stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO much for reading and all of the feedback! This has been loads of fun to write and I may revisit the world later on, but for now - thank you from the bottom of my heart.


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